Yngvi
by Tyrs
Summary: Follows the tale of one, fifeteen year old Skagossi, who pledges his life to House Stark. Reviews are welcome, please comment on writing style.
1. Chapter 1

Dark wings, dark words. The raven had arrived a few hours ago but his house doesn't keep a maester. Too rocky, too barren, too wild. Skagos.

Stone in the old tongue. Fitting really, the land was mountainous, and, in most areas, exposed rock conquered all. Grass, rain, snow, all defeated by unwavering rock.

"Stone conquers all," his lord father had declared to his older brothers one night long since passed,"and we are the Stoneborn!"

He reread the message from the mainland:"Lord Rickard Stark and his son and heir Brandon Stark were executed for treason. The King, Aerys Targaryen, has declared Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark traitors. Arryn has called his banners and his wards will probably do the same. Magnar meet you in Winterfell,

Gorne"

He smiled, Gorne, his man, his blood. He was so much more than a friend and he had proven it again. "Magnar" his friendly jest, Lord in the Old tongue, once his father dies then his brother, then his children die, then their children die, then he would be Magnar of House Magnar. His father was still healthy though at an old age of eight and sixty. His brother, at four and fifety, wasn't so good; he had broken his arm fighting a bear and the wound had festered even after he amputated his whole arm.

He wouldn't last the night, but then again he said that for the past eight nights, but come the morn he was there, in his bed, drinking. Stone can't be conquered.

It should really be their house words, Yngvi thought. No one had bothered to tell him what their words were, he doubted whether they cared to remember. It wasn't important not to the Stoneborn. The isle carved the lives of islanders to be hard and short - words were of no importance. He had had ten brothers and soon enough he would have none. At five and ten his skin was riddled with scars.

He went off to find his father, the message was important; the Lord of Winterfell would call its banners, and the biggest war since Aegon's conquest would begin, Skagos will answer its Liegelords call - even if its just him.

He found his father sitting in the hall. The hall was barren, only him and his father, silent; only the rain and wind. His father was ripping meat from a bone whilst filling the great chair. Fur and leather could not hide his immence size. Though his hair was brittle and grey, his body was of a much younger man; arms, legs and chest chorded with muscle. A tale was told around Kingshouse of how he had ripped a boys head off, whilst drunk. Yngvi knew different; there wasn't enough ale on Skagos to get his father drunk.

His father looked up at him as he drew near, his footsteps echoing around the hall. His father's eye followed him, his left he had eaten after a torturor had cut it out. His right was as grey as his beard. Yngvi hated looking into his fathers eyes, as he always leaves his eye socket exposed; empty and sore.

"Yngvi!" He roared,"What do you want, boy?" The moment till he said "boy" was shorter than what it used to be, he had started caring."You fathered any bastards yet? Stop swinging that sword and start using the one between your legs! Do you hear me boy?" Boy echoed around the hall, silence reigned for a moment. Then he spoke up:

"Winterfell will call its banners soon. I want to lead our forces in your name." He had spoken confidently and now a small smile threatened his lips.

Silence reigned once more before his father erupted into laughter.

"The cock on you, boy. It must be bigger than a gaint, does it do your thinking for you boy?" He waited a moment throwing the bone to his sons feet. He cleared his throat and straightened up in his seat."Our forces would be fifety men on foot...that's the most I'll give you. IF, if you answer my questions...boy?" His father smirked at him.

"What's the banner of House Stark? What's their words?"

Yngvi thought for a moment."Winter is coming. A grey wolf on a white field." He felt proud about remembering, he had commited the sigils and words of most Houses to memory.

"A direwolf boy. But, yes, a wolf. So you know what banner you'll be fighting under, and the words they'll mutter every few seconds, but who will you be dying for? No, true, Stoneborn cares to die for words or cloth apart from you boy." He was right, the Stoneborn followed men not bolts of cloth.

Who was the new Lord of Winterfell?

He had just read the names of three lords, yet none of them sprang to mind. He had drawn a blank. He quickly thought logically, since he was nine he had studied his liege house. Names of the Kings in the North rushed past: Theon, Brandon, Rickard, Torhen, Jon.

"Jon,"he whispered softly, then more loudly:"Jon Stark."

His father looked at him and slowly nodded."Fine, go and fight for the Starks,"a grin swept over Yngvi's face,"but don't expect any of my men to die for a dead man. Boy there hasn't been a Jon Stark for decades. Eddard. Eddard Stark boy. Winterfell takes grain from us and that's it, nothing more. They've forgotten about us boy, we are shit to them. No man from Skagos will go to Winterfell to become a kneeler, if they do when they return they'll see their lands taken from them, his women raped probably killed and children eaten. That's smallfolk and us Lords alike." The way he said Lord ahowed how little he cared for the title."Everyman I send to the mainland is one less man to defend our lands and most will drown before being able to fight. So listen closely boy," the man leaned forward and his face became stern,"and listen hard. FUCK Winterfell. You won't be going, you'll stay here, father some bastards and steal some lands from those other bastard Lords. If you don't do as I command, as your Lord father, I'll cut your cock off and feed it to the ravens you like...or ill give it to your brothers newborn, I reckon he'll be able to get a few bastards with it. Now get out." Yngvi didn't move."GET OUT!" He roared.

Yngvi did as he was bid. He wanted to run out of the hall but he couldn't, instead he walked.

He found his bed chambers soon enough. All his worldly possessions in a small room: a hatchet, a sword and a dagger on his belt, which hung from a peg. He had already packed his clothes, mostly furs and leathers, into a chest. His new boots were on his cot.

He had given his father a chance, a chance to honour his liege, a chance to honour his son, but his father had scorned him. Yngvi had made uo his mind; to leave for Winterfell and never return.

To return meant death. His father would see to that, he would never be insulted without retribution. He would leave tonight. I'll need armour, he thought, as he picked up his chest. Will Winterfell supply it? As soon as he thought it he almost laughed. He knew where to get armour. He hid his chest for his escape later. No one saw him through the wind and the rain. He almost sprinted to the armoury. His heart raced, axes and spears lined the walls, a few shields were cast around. Right at the end stood a door, made of wierwood with gold inlay, with runes from the first men. Yngvi slowly walked towards it. He knew what was on the other side of the door.

I can't, its not mine, he thought.

He took it anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

Trees. He had never seen so many trees before, not in all his life. A light rain fell through the trees and softly onto his horse and cloak. The currents off of Skagos had taken him further South then he had hoped, but he was still in the North, trotting along to Winterfell.

Gorne would meet him there, they would honour their ancestors oaths. He missed Gorne. His only true friend, the only one to follow him to the mainland; to war, to death.

Yngvi had month delusions it would be death, it will be better that way. His father would respect a warriors death, probably envy it.

He prayed to the hearttree for it, the Old gods. He stopped wearing armour and battled constantly on Skagos. His father had wanted to die.

"Dying in battle is a glorious thing," his fathers voice echoed in his head,"as long as you take some with you. Remember that boy."

The boy had forgotten that though. He remembered his brother dying, he remembered crying, and he remembered the beating. He had forgotten the words.

Tears filled his eyes. Anger and pain consumed him like it always did when he thought of his brother. He was eight and ten when an axe split open his face. He was his only friend, until he met Gorne, yet now, when he pictured his face in life, only the one in death appeared. Only blood. Red blood, white bone, crimson gore, black hair.

He rubbed his eyes. He's dead, you want to cry over a dead man, a voice in his head said.

He dug his heels into his horse and it galloped off. He felt awkward in the saddle, he had never ridden more than a few miles on Skagos. The horses there were different, they had more girth and were sure-footed, but never fast. He regretted buying this horse. It was too lean, too passive. He couldn't control it.

He pulled his cloak tighter across him. The cold never bothered him but the warmth of the furs was enticing. His hand left the reigns and groped the pommel of his sword. He itched for battle, the anticipation clawed at him.

He slowed his horse down as he saw a rider on the road. The rider had a fine and new clothes, woollen cloak with fur lining and dark leathers. His hair was dark and neatly combed but hung loose. The rain hovered off of it, making it glimmer and shine in the sunlight. As Yngvi drew closer the rider turned to look at him.

He had sharp features and a long face, stubble covered his cheeks and chin. But what drew attention was his deep grey eyes. They seemed to pierce and probe every inch of him. The rider had a stern face.

"Good morrow friend. Where do you ride?" Yngvi's voice boomed out. He was highborn and had to sound as such.

"Winterfell..."the rider said, before Yngvi interrupted him.

"Our paths are one and the same. I mean to pledge my sword and axe to House Stark, until I die I shall serve them faithfully!"He announced enthusiastically.

"You a knight?" The rider probed. Yngvi laughed.

"I'm Stoneborn, we follow the Old gods. My name is Yngvi Stormborn of House Magnar. What is yours?"

"Ned,"the rider said softly. Bemusement crossed his face."House magnar? From Skagos. You've come along way to answer my call."

"Eddard Stark is my Magnar..." Yngvi trailed off "sorry, Magnar is Lord in the Old tongue. Skagossi use common and the Old tongue, its hard to separate them."

A small smile was creeping over Neds face.

"What?" Yngvi asked.

"You'll understand once we reach Winterfell. But come now friend, Winterfell is only a few leagues away and Winter is coming." Ned stated calmly and then galloped off. Yngvi dug his heels into his horse once more and followed the strange rider.

Why had he used the Stark words? Yngvi thought. Is he a Winterfell guard? It would explain the words and the clothes.

Soon enough they came across Winterfell. They rode up towards the great stone walls passing men, women and soldiers all who bowed when they rode passed. Kneelers, he thought.

He did feel proud, however, he had sat up in his saddle and revealed his armour under his cloak.

His father had never worn it, but the King of Skagos had. He wore it when he rebelled against the Kings of Winter. When all the pieces belonged to one man, the new King would arise. Or so the legend says.

They were all looking at it, even the peasants could understand. The ripples deep in the metal, coloured lines of Green and black dancing together, but never touching.

Valyrian steel cuirass.

On his forearms he wore fur lined Valyrian steel vambraces, with human bone inlay on the runes. Legend had it that when the King of Skagos cut down the King of Skane, he kept his bones to decorate his armour.

He shouldn't of stolen them, only the King should wield them. But he was Stoneborn.

They rode under the gates and passed a Direwolf sigil. They slowed to a stop in the courtyard, both riders dismounted as a boy, accompanied by two giant men, approached.

He was tall and lean, like Ned he had sharp features, and a long face, but he wasn't of an age to grow facial hair and his hair colour was much darker than Neds.

"Ned,"he screamed as they embraced. Ned stood a few inches over the boy, whilst Yngvi and the giants loomed a head over both of them,"they killed them. The ravens came, they took her, burn father, and strangled Bran. I'll kill them all."

The realisation hit Yngvi, but he stood silent.

"I will Ben. You'll stay here, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell." Ned whispered and Ben started to cry.

"Not this Stark, not now. Please Ned!"He begged as Ned pulled him into a tighter embrace.

"Lord Stark!" A deep voice cried out,"your Bannerman await you in the great hall." Ned stepped away from the embrace and turned to Yngvi.

"Join me tonight and ill accept your oath," he stated with a small smile,"Whoresbane, Greatjon walk with me."

Yngvi watched as they walked away. Lord Stark.

"You rode in with Lord Stark?" A familiar voice whispered from behind.

"Yes, Gorne. And I didn't make myself look like an arse...just a total cock," Yngvi replied back before they both broke out into laughter.

Yngvi turned to face his old friend and they embraced. His shaven head was wet with rain, and so was his forked beard. His eyes were still black as night, and his teeth still dyed red. That was him; Gorne Stormborn..."The maneater".

They talked for hours, about the North, the lands beyond the wall, Essos, and his travels since his exile.

"I never knew I'd have so much fun for raping the Lords wife,"Gorne said excitedly.

"It wasn't for that, you ate her husbands heart."

"He was a good warrior, I need his spirit to be able to lift my sword again. And I'm not sure if it was the heart or his wife but my sword is a few inches bigger now,"he laughed and drank some ale,"besides his blood is on my teeth for everyone to see." And with that remark he smiled.

It carried on in the great hall, the Skagossi drinking and jesting with the Northmen. Then Ned called for him.

In front of all the Lords of the North and Neck, Yngvi and Gorne kneeled.

Yngvi offered up his sword, a battered beaten thing, and Gorne his axe.

"No, no, no. That won't do, you can't kill for me with this rusted thing," Ned whispered taking away his sword...

And giving Yngvi, his own blade. Longer of both blade and grip, than his previous sword, and better metal too. Eddard Starks own blade, straight from his sheath, was in Yngvi's hands.

Then they spoke. The Old tongue danced out of their mouths, graceful and poetic. When shouted it would sound harsh and commanding, but when whispered it was like a lovers kiss. The truest of oaths are always in the Old tongue, so the Gods can hear.

Lord Stark let them rise, and Yngvi swore he stood taller than before. He was prouder too.

Shame we are marching off to die, he thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Shout out to Spartan4 for reviewing. Going to be a complete ass and not tell you what I'm going to do with this, because to be frank it would ruin it.**

Marching was hard. The entire North was at his back pushing him forward, he couldn't stop riding. Each yard made more blisters on his thighs, rubbing together and bursting. He hated the days.

Ned Stark had taken a liking to him and insisted that he ride by his side. That meant leaving Gorne, who wasn't allowed to ride with the Lords.

It wasn't because he was a bastard's bastard, it wasn't because he was an admitted cannibal, it was because of Roose Bolton.

The first night of the march, Howland Reed, Whoresbane Umber, Crowsfood Umber, Greatjon Umber, Martyn Cassel and Ned joined him in Gorne's tent for food and drink. A lot of drink.

Soon enough, Yngvi was involved in a drinking contest with the Umbers, whilst Ned, Howland and Martyn were swapping tales Gorne. Howland spoke about Harrenhal, Ned of the Eyrie and Gorne about beyond-the-wall.

"Bullshit!" Martyn shouted. Gorne smiled and took of his boots, revealing a lack of toes and some strange rune, inked into his skin.

"Lost four toes to the cold and then the wildlings took me in. They cut that rune into my foot to ward off death then poured some liquid over it. When it healed you could still see it." Gorne explained.

Yngvi was struggling with his ale, it stung his eyes and turned his stomach, already Crowsfood, and Whoresbane had had enough, but the Greatjon kept drinking.

During the day, they were sombre and quiet, at night, away from their men, they were the opposite.

Just when Yngvi had declared the Greatjon the winner of the drinking contest, Roose came in.

He wasn't a very attractive man, nor was he ugly, his features were purely insignificant and unremarkable. The only feature that stood out were his eyes. They were very cold and malicious.

Where Gorne's were black, his were pale. And almost like an omen, Gorne and Roose were complete opposites. And they didn't like each other.

Roose sat himself down and started asking about Skagos. At first it was harmless questions about the landscape and terrain. Then it turned to war, then cannibalism.

"So do you eat people on the island?"

"Come Winter, the crops fail. The poor have no food apart from what their Lords ration out. They have to shit in a cloth and use it to keep a fire. The sheep die first. There goes your wool. If you find the bodies the meat is yours. Then the bears come, searching for food, any food. All they find is people. Once you've killed the bears and ran out of grain, you get hungry. There's no crime on Skagos about eating people, all you got to do is dye your teeth red. And the children look tasty. And the dead look tasty. And its so cold, they ain't rotting. So you eat them. And when the dead are gone, you make more dead. Most Winters, only highborn come out with clean teeth, us lowborns make the choice: eat or be eaten. Its easy really." Gorne said softly, showing neither shame or excitement, distaste or satisfaction. He was completely indifferent to it. The tent was quiet, so quiet.

Everyone seemed to understand the pain Gorne was in, the underlying message for help; all except Bolton.

"So you have children to eat them in Winter? You, do you still practice the first night over there?" He said quietly, making everyone listen hard. Even though he was now addressing Yngvi, Gorne was the one to answer him.

"They do, but not in the way you think, boy." Gorne was younger than Roose by a couple of years, yet you couldn't argue Gorne was the elder.

"Then enlighten me."

"The Lord gets the hole, the peasant...well, he gets his pretty wife's mouth."

"I'll have to try that." Even though he whispered it, and the Umbers were roaring with laughter, Gorne and Yngvi still heard him. That's when Gorne said it.

"Why so you can see a mans cock? Or ask him to bugger you with it?"

It was silent for a moment. Only a moment.

The Umbers started laughing, all in union. Then Ned and Howland, even proud Martyn chuckled.

Bolton stood up and drew his sword, but Gorne was fast.

He had jumped from one side of the tent to the other, over a table, and landed on the Lord of the Dreadfort, pinning his arms down with his knees.

The laughter stopped. Gorne had a knife to Boltons throat.

"Unhand me, I'll not be insulted by the likes of you. I demand a duel!" Bolton declared, trying to command respect and authority.

"We just duelled then, milord. You drew your sword, and I drew mine. Fine, it is a little smaller and not as wide, but like my whore mother said,"size doesn't matter!" Now tell me, milord, why I should unhand you, milord, as you may know, milord, that you lost this duel, milord, and drew a sword near your liege, milord, which, I do believe means death. Milord." Gorne said, getting ever louder and adding more emphasis on the milords. They both stared at each other.

Black eyes and pale eyes. Both looks would kill other men.

"Enough, Gorne get off of him. Bolton stay, Gorne go dig a latrine pit or lie with a washerwoman. The rest of you go get some sleep. THIS, never leaves this tent." Ned had shouted that night.

So there he was, riding besides the Lord of the Dreadfort, with pale eyes and a small cut on his neck, and Ned Stark, all trying to forget what happened.

Martyn proudly carried the banner of House Stark, the Umbers sat a silent vigil on their horses, the crannogman had a small smile, whilst Ned wore a stern mask. All because of Bolton, he thought.

"I've confined him to his tent at night. He's angry, I've shamed him. To make matters worse, I've damage his disposition towards me which was bad to begin with. I had a Roose Bolton that hid his malicious, plotting ways by killing people, mostly the enemy. Now...now I've got Lord Bolton, ready to turncloak. All because of Gorne,"Ned had said softly to him, to avoid Bolton hearing. Yngvi turned to look at him.

He was an impressive figure, commanding power and respect, not by brute strength like the Umbers, but with his fair, caring nature. He no longer wore his stern face, now he looked more concerned and worried.

He had a right to be. His army was tearing at the seems, only the hatred towards the Targaryens and love towards Ned's father kept them from marching home.

Eddard Stark didn't have the loyalty of his Bannermen because he hadn't earnt it.

He had the commanding voice, he cared for his Bannermen, he even knew tactics, but none of his men knew his spirit. He never fought at tourneys, he hadn't fathered bastards; he wasn't even in the North most of his life.

He'd been a ward of the Eyrie since he was eight. The few who knew him would die for him, but only a few did know him.

He needed a battle and he needed to win.

"All because of Bolton, he orchestrated that charade. Like you say, he's a plotting man ready to turn his cloak and stab you in the back. His pride is hurt, so soften him up. Praise him at war meetings, agree to his strategies and laugh at his jokes. Then ask him and his men to be in the vanguard during the next battle, if he excepts you've given him honour and glory whilst weakening his forces. If he doesn't then he's shamed, he looks weak and many lesser Houses will love to topple a craven." Yngvi whispered back.

"I lead the van, its about time I step out of Brandon's shadow and prove myself," Ned whispered back. All Yngvi knew about Brandon was that he liked blood on his weapon; cock or sword.

"Then do, but who says Winterfell men must also be in the van. The Dreadfort men will be weakened by their losses whilst Winterfell still looks mighty as Ned Stark's Direwolf was first into the breach. You'll consolidate your power, subdue an enemy, win all the glory and honour, whilst Bolton is oblivious too it." Yngvi said nonchalantly. He looked into Ned's eyes and immediately knew he had already thought of that plan.

"You are smart Yngvi, I need men like you around me. At the moment I've got Umbers and Karstarks fighting over who should lead the van, then I've got Dustins and Boltons sharpening their knives, the crannogmen are calling out for justice. All of them hate each other. All of them want to lead this host and are sickened that its me, not just a young boy, but the wrong young boy. They call me the Shy Wolf. I don't do tourneys or bastards, and because my cock isn't covered in maidens blood they don't think I can fight. I need you Yngvi. More than you know," Ned said; solemn and earnest.

"Then you have me. I'm highborn so I can be on a war council, but because I'm half wildling and half cannibal no one will be offended."

"Exactly, but I think if you eat people someone may be offended," Ned said softly,"I thought you were a drunk like the Umbers, or as bloodthirsty as the wildlings. But, in fact...you are all that and cunning too." A small smile was on his lips.

"Aye my lord. I'm more cunning than a snake and madder than a mad thing. From know on, I'll call myself The Black Adder, to warn my enemies of my mischievous ways," Yngvi whispered and they both shared a laugh.

"Good point, Yngvi. Bolton," Ned called with Yngvi taken aback by this change of topic,"did you hear that? Yngvi tells me I should give the honour of the van to you and the Dreadfort. I agree with him, except I'll ride with you."

Before Roose could reply, Ned had trotted off. His greatsword, Ice, on his back.

"Yngvi, here now!" Ned shouted.

Ned was 10 yards ahead of the column, out of earshot. Yngvi obeyed and galloped ahead after him.

"Yngvi, why are you and Gorne here? Truly?" Ned asked as he approached. He didn't look at Yngvi, instead he looked out into the distance, like he was searching for something.

"I'm here for honourable reasons, to uphold my families oaths. Gorne is here because he hopes that if he fights hard enough...you'll help Skagos come Winter. Also, we're Stormborn, both of us, born amidst thunder and rain; smoke and salt. An omen from the Old gods, we are destined for glory and doomed to a gory, painful death. We both hope this is our glory." Yngvi answered.

"Truthfully, how bad is it?" Ned probed.

Yngvi thought for a moment,"It is worse in some aspects. When Winter comes we gamble on how long it will last, if its longer than five years...we lose half our people; either through death or slavery. Bravos is near by, they send boats across. Parents can sell their children off or themselves. Cheap slaves us Stoneborn," Yngvi grimaced,"you choose whether you want to see your child die, or think its been fed. Some slavers sink and we get gold, gold buys food. The Nights Watch also helps, not a lot but enough. Apart from that its like Gorne said: you watch your parents die, then your brothers, then your sisters, then your women, then your bastards. That's when you choose, eat or die." He didn't talk for a while, he just couldn't. He didn't know why, but he felt exhausted.

"I'll try to help when we get back."

"Ned, we aren't coming back. We're going south to die."

Ned looked at him,"Even I think that's depressing." Yngvi grinned, holding back a laugh, they had laughed too much this day.

"So, what's the story behind the armour?" Ned asked.

"Every Skagossi knows this tale. A thoasand years ago, Skagos was free. It spoke the Old tongue and lived pure and free. We had a King, a Stormborn, the truest of men, touched by the gods. He claimed dominion over Skane and Skagos, but Skane had its own King..."

Ned interrupted," Isn't Skane unpopulated?"

"Don't interrupt again,"Ned laughed, "Now, Skane had a King, and people: warriors and beauties. When the King heard he raised a boat with a crew of ten. Each House on Skagos claims an ancestor in that crew, Magnar claims two. The King came ashore naked, only an axe, made of wood and stone. The King of Skane came. He came; and he died. Then every man who came died. Soon enough the island had no more men. So they killed the women, then the children, then the animals. Then they set the island on fire, the fire brought forth the soul of the island. The island had no soul so no life could live there. That's why its unpopulated.

"The crew set off for home but before they did, the King made his armour. He didn't know the spells of the dragonkings, but the gods helped him. Before he finished the armour he put pieces of bone in; the Kings bone.

"By then, the King of Winter heard of these rebellious Kings and decided to put them down. When he landed on Skagos, the King in the North cut through the Stoneborn with his mighty steads. In the end on the King stood for Skagos. He fought and fought and then, after the blood flowed to the sea, the King vanished.

"The gods took him. His crew took his armour and hid it from the King. When they returned Skagos had bent the knee. The crew refused and the Stark King took their heads. When a single man holds all his armour the new King will rise and Skagos will be free. That's the story about the armour. Don't worry Stark, no one man will own Skagos, the same as no one man will own this armour, each man will die to keep it free."

They both returned back to the column, but just before they were in earshot Ned whispered:

"I'm marrying my brothers bride."

He tries to step out of his brothers shadow, but honour and duty keep him in its darkness, Yngvi thought before following.


	4. Chapter 4

It was silent. He hated silence. It was dark too. He hated the dark.

He couldn't see who he was going to kill and he couldn't sing about it.

Its death, one voice in his head said.

Its Robert, another said.

He looked at his doom. Open farm land. Then Targaryens. A three headed dragon took flight in the wind. Then the walls.

It wasn't impenetrable, the gate was wide open, eager and willing to be sacked. After that he couldn't see. He heard it was a small town, houses made of wood only the brothel stood with stone. He made a mental note to visit if he survived.

He hadn't had a good whore since Riverrun, and that tumble had to be cut short.

Robert Baratheon you horny bastard, Yngvi thought.

They were here because the young Lord wanted a woman. Not his love, not his whore, not even his woman. Just any woman. He couldn't wait.

The plan was to meet at Riverrun, Yngvi thought. They would meet at Riverrun marry Jon Arryn to Lysa Tully and Eddard Stark to Catelyn Tully. Here the three rebel Lords would combine their armies and push on to the Capital under the Crowned Stag. Jon had arrived with a hundred horse at his back, his foot stood a vigilant rear-guard further down the Trident. Jon had bedded his wife dutifully, so had Ned.

He had even shown his new bride compassion by forgoing the bedding ceremony, instead he escorted her to the room, hand in hand. There he took her maidenhead.

Yngvi was outside their window, a floor below, in the darkness with a whore. Not all the moans and grunts were coming from her though.

The only one who had failed was Robert. Even his army made it to Riverrun. That's where he heard the tale.

Robert went whoring.

Ned took command of the newly unified Army. The horse would be split, one third would ride south to the Stoney sept, the other two thirds would bring Lords, on the Trident, still loyal to the crown over to the rebels. Nearly all of the foot would march to Jon Arryn's host down the Trident, securing its North bank. Some would march to the Stoney Sept to reinforce the horse, helping for a organised retreat if they should lose.

We'll lose, Yngvi thought. He could clearly count the campfires outside the walls, they were outnumbered two to one, that didn't mention the troops inside the walls searching for Robert.

The bells were heard when the wind blew from the south. So faintly.

They had about four thoasand horse with the same number of foot miles away.

That's when he saw it. Eddard Stark drew his fathers sword, his ancestors sword; Ice. His armour was steel plate, tough and battered. He wore no helm.

"The men need to see me, Yngvi. See I have no fear," Ned had said. A victory here and noone would doubt Ned's resolve.

Bu we are doomed, Yngvi thought.

He rode out in front of them, a bannerman riding along side him. The direwolf was caught in the wind, it was the only sigil they brought. In the rush they had left the Tully's Trout, the Baratheon's Stag, even Arryn's Falcon, only Neds Direwolf.

The voice filled the air. Not Jon Arryn's, or Hoster Tully's. But Ned's.

"Men, take heart. If you don't die the whores probably won't charge..."

"The whores always charge,"a voice interrupted.

"I did say probably. I won't lie. We're outnumbered, our support and army far away. I see a thoasand fires in that camp with ten men around each, that's eight thoasand men. Eight thoasand men we can kill, eight thoasand we want to kill..."

"That's ten thoasand men milord."

"It is. And probably more inside. But here, on this ground now is where you prove yourself. I know you can fight, I know you want to. I want to see if you will. Starks take not one step back, for Winter has truly come. For them or us, you decide men.

"Follow me, I ride, not to glory, or victory, nor even defeat. I ride to blood. WINTERFELL!" He screamed, spuring his horse forward. His banner followed him, dancing in the wind just before the rain fell.

Then the thunder. And then the charge.

A solid line of horse charging towards the sept on the hill, charging towards the gate. The thunder covered the screams of the men.

"Winterfell."

"Riverrun."

"Stark."

"Magnar."

He turned to see Gorne riding a steed besides him, forked beard and black eyes. He wore no armour, only paint. He had no sword only an axe.

His goal was different though; find Robert and keep him alive.

Gorne was no true fighter. His skill wasn't in standing, trading blows with an opponent. No, his skill relied on movement, speed and the idea that killing the other bastard was more important than surviving. He was no fighter, he was a brawler.

Lightening crashed again. It illuminated the field they were riding. The Targaryen camp was closer now, Yngvi could see thoasands of men.

We are going to die, he thought; one last time.

The wave of horses smashed into the camp. Yngvi couldn't look around, his mind focused on pikemen, thrusting at him. He parried and countered, flesh giving way to steel.

The thunder had covered their approach, most of the Targaryens were still in their tents.

Fire flew across the sky. The clash of steel was drowned out by agonising screams. The tents were on fire, torches were being thrown at them.

The smell of blood was slowly being replaced by the smell of cooked meat.

Yngvi thrusted his blade into a pikemans unprotected face, and twisted. His crooked nose and darting eyes were gone, replaced by a gaping bloody hole. He dropped his pike, and just before he collapsed, he took one last wheezing breath.

He looked around, his charge had brought him into a labryinth of fire. Thick smoke filled the air. The only sounds were screams.

He looked for the Direwolf. He looked for Ned.

"To me, to me," his voice called out, conquering the sounds of battle. He was still on his horse, his left hand on the reigns, his right wielding Ice.

The weapon cut through steel and flesh, plate and bone. In its clumsy, looping arc it meant death for foe after foe.

Fire seperated them. A big wall of flame.

He didn't think. He couldn't, if he thought, he would of died. He just charged at it.

His horse leapt through it...

...and landed on a pike. The horse reigned up, standing tall on its hindlegs. But the pike was dug deeper and deeper into its chest. Yngvi fell out of the saddle and hit the ground hard, as his horse died next to him.

A man appeared, no armour only breeches. He didn't have boots on his feet, so the mud squelched through his toes. The rain had washed some blood off of his skin, but it was still there, staining him.

Yngvi was gasping for breath, looking for his sword. It was just a few inches away from his hand. It was so close, but not as close as the cold blade touching his neck.

"Die boy."

His blade pulled back.

And fell from his fingers. A thin red line formed across his neck. His head rolled back and the line got thicker and redder, and soon it became a smile.

His body fell into the mud, and over the top of him stood the bog devil; Howland Reed.

He took the hand that he offered and regained his feet.

They could hear the bells now, ringing loud and often, from the sept on the hill. They ran into the walled town, and choas reigned.

Two men, covered in mud, were fighting on the ground. When one reached for his sword, lying a few inches away, the other man bite into his throat. Blood sprayed out, but the last thing the dying man did was stick his sword into the victors heart.

Men were fighting on rooftops, throwing slate and fletch at the enemy below, whilst thrusting with spears at each other. Horses galloped riderless, running down friend and foe alike. House sigils and colours could no longer be seen, only red blood and brown mud.

A man rode in from the west gate, clean as silk, a winged lion across his chest.

"Connington," Reed muttered.

Yngvi wiped the mud and blood off his sword, and plunged it into the nearest Targaryens neck. He hacked off anothers sword arm then, with the backswing, his head. He cut down on a skull, feeling the impact on his arm, and the sound of bone cracking.

He moved slowly towards the brothel, hacking and slashing his way forward.

He lost sight of Howland, but didn't care. He no longer felt the dull ache in his back, nor the weight off his sword. He felt the blood pulsing through, and spraying on him.

He no longer saw, he just reacted on instinct. He had killed men before seeing their faces. He had cut a bloody path through, and now the brothel was in sight.

A man stepped in front of its door. Covered in plate armour with a two handed greatsword, a terrible looking thing, covered in blood and brain.

Yngvi carried on forward, his sword twirling in his right hand, walking straight at the man. He lifted his greatsword above his head.

And Yngvi lunged forward, his sword piercing bone and flesh. The man's greatsword dropped behind him, and he fell to his knees, yet Yngvi kept pushing towards the door, and the man's corpse was forced onto its back. As Yngvi walked into the brothel, he pulled his sword out of its unprotected face.

He closed the door behind him. In front of him Gorne was sat down, eating a chickens leg.

"How's the battle, Yngvi?"

"Get this bastard off of me," the chair screamed.

"Yes milord," Yngvi said,"Gorne go find out for yourself." Gorne immediately threw away the chicken leg, picked up his axe and left, whilst his chair got up.

"Robert let's go, we have a battle to win," Yngvi commanded, handing the older lord his famed warhammer. He just smiled and left.

Right at the door the winged lion stood, frozen in shock, as Robert kicked him in the face.

He fell to the ground, losing both sword and shield. Hoster Tully was slumped in the doorway and Yngvi stepped over him. Robert was being pressed by a Targaryen spearmen, so Yngvi slashed at Connington with his sword.

And heard the clash of steel. His sword was halted by another. Yngvi looked at his new foe.

A skinny old man, grinning a toothless grin. Yngvi headbutted him, and as he stumbled back, brought his sword across his neck. His body slumped agaisnt the brothels wall and his head landed in the mud, shock eternal on his face.

The chance to kill the defenceless Connington was gone, he stole away with most of his surviving troops, through the western gate.

"Shit," Robert roared as he caved someones head in with a single handed strike with his warhammer,"the Griffen got away." He looked around searching for another opponent, but found none. Howland Reed was protecting the wounded Tully in the doorway.

Ned was surronded by men. Ice was red with blood and his guard was low with exhaustion. Yet, when they came he cut them down.

The first was a spearman, who thrusted at him. Ned stepped to the open side of the spear and cut diagonally, from left shoulder to right him. The man wore no armour so he fell apart, lungs, heart and guts in the mud.

The next was a swordman, who slashed at him. Ned ducked under the attack, then cut across his belly. Blue eels wriggled out as he died.

The next two practically charged into his blade, after him, one soldier tripped over his comrade's corpses and slid in the mud. He fouled himself before yielding. He stayed on the ground for fear of moving.

The last two now circled Ned. Watching. Waiting to strike.

Ned didn't even keep his guard up and just smiled at them as two spears emerged from their chests.

"To me, to me," Ned screamed. Slick with mud and red with blood, he still wanted more.

A lone rider charged at him. Ned thrusted upwards, and Ice slipped under the riders breastplate, forcing from his saddle. As the horse galloped off, he slid down the edge of the blade. Each inch made his eyes go wider and his gasps louder.

All around them victory roars and deaf cries reigned.

Robert was having a whale of a time. The bare chested brute was caving in heads and shattering bones of anyman to come near.

He is grinning, Yngvi realised, men around him are crying for their mothers and he is having the time of his life. He heard a charging roar.

The Targaryens troops running towards the western gate were suddenly set upon, by Dreadfort men.

They charge through, slaughtering left and right.

"Bolton, send two hundred men to harrass them as they retreat. Come back before dawn." Ned waited a moment,"This battle is won."

Silence riegned for a moment. Then the cheer went up. A wild roar developed, drowning out the bells.

Yngvi knew what would happen now. The men would rush for a whore or a bed, and those who didn't would have to look for wounded or stand guard.

He was tired. He could hardly pick up his sword. A deep ache was developing in his muscles and he knew he would never stand guard like this.

They'll cut my head off if they catch me sleeping on guard.

Even before the roar of victory had died out, he was inside the brothel once more. He grabbed a girl.

A pretty little thing. Stood two heads below him and was slender. Her skin was pale and felt soft. Her long, unkept, black hair rolled down and rested on her breasts.

She didn't struggle as he marched upstairs and into the nearest room. He locked the door and rushed to get his armour off.

His cuirass was easy, two buckles on each side then off over the head. His vambraces were much harder, the numbness in his fingers made them uncooperative. After a few moments he gave up.

He threw his bloody sword into the corner and dropped his swordbelt.

He ripped off his shirt. Then his boots. Then his pants.

He stood there naked. Covered in blood, mud and sweat.

He kissed her. It was forceful, but not rough. Her mouth didn't open for his at first, but his tongue forced it. She slowly wrapped her arms around his neck as he gripped her waist. He pulled her tighter as he grew hard.

He ripped her dress off of her and threw her on the bed.

As he took her, the only sounds he could hear were the fire and screams of death.


	5. Chapter 5

He woke up with her, their legs entangled, her head resting on his chest.

He could feel her hair spread out across his bloody chest.

He tried to move and found himself paralysed. His muscles were cramped up, but that wasn't why he stayed. He loved this moment. Warm and naked but not alone. This whore pleasured him in more ways than one.

She's no whore, he thought, what sort of whore stays all night?

She was tighter than a whore would of been and she was wet too. At first he thought it was the fact he had took her so barbaricly, with warm blood still on his skin, but now thinking about it, her moans were genuine, and she looked him in her eyes.

She is no whore.

He had grabbed the first woman he saw, beautiful and seductive, was he wrong to think she was a whore? Should he ask her?

He chuckled at his own predicament, slowly waking the whore.

Her eyes open and locked with his. He momentarily lost himself in the deep blue.

"Are you a whore?"

Her mouth opened slightly, her lips turning upwards, and her eyebrows were raised.

"Its fine if you are, and its...well its finer if your not. I don't judge."

"Do you find many whores in whorehouses, sir?" Her soft seductive voice said. The previous night flooded back briefly and he felt himself harden.

"Surprisingly, I think I grabbed the only one who isn't a whore."

"Who says I'm not a whore? I could be, your cock seems to like me." He laughed at that, her frankness was refreshing. He realised he had been around men to long, and he missed a woman's touch.

"I know you're a whore, I just want to know whether its your profession."

"Mayhaps."

"Mayhaps," he grinned uncontrollably,"tell me your name."

"Peaches." She licked her lips.

"That's not your name."

"No, but it'll do."

"Well Peaches, I need to sleep, killing people is hard work," he said with a yawn. He slowly closed his eyes and waited. She drew herself closer to him. She kissed him on the lips, hard and rough.

Then she mounted him, her hair covering her breasts. Her hair floated in the air as she moved up and down. She put her hands on his chest, and her nails dug into his skin everytime he stroked her. He laughed at her impulsiveness and she joined him. As she climaxed he kissed her, and threw her on her back and finished.

He got up as she lied in bed, smiling and satisfied. Yngvi couldn't help feeling smug.

He found a copper bath was behind a separating screen, the water was cold as he threw himself in. Battle was scrubbed off his body and mind and was left in the tub. He also put his sword in. The mud had dried and he wouldn't dare put it back into his sheath like that.

Nor would he do it wet. He dried it on his torn shirt and applied oil he found on a desk. Then, fully satisfied with the maintaining of his weapon, did he put it back in his sheath.

He put on his pants and boots and went downstairs.

There he found Ned and Robert breaking their fast on porridge. He joined them.

"Where's the next battle?" He asked, straight away.

The two figures looked at him with stern faces.

"We don't know yet, we're deciding what to do. A host has gathered at Kings Landing, its numbers aren't certain, but its bigger than our own before we left Riverrun. Storms end is under siege by Mace Tyrell, but young Stannis is holding on. So we can march for Kings landing and try to end the war, or march to Storms end and consolidate our power. Either way, our host will be harassed by Connington who has already regrouped." Robert said solemnly.

Ned studied the map. So did Yngvi. He looked at wooden blocks representing troops, that's when he realised.

"The host is going to smash us on the Trident," he declared, Ned nodded in agreement.

"Yes. We know that Yngvi. Rhaegars host will smash one host that's gathering in the Vale, then hit the one in the Riverlands, then we'll surrender our heads. But, how do we stop this, how do we meet them on our terms?" Robert shouted, Yngvi was surprised he knew his name.

"We don't stop it," Ned said suddenly, eyes still focused on the map," If the host stayed in Kings landing we wouldn't be able to take it, but now the army marches, we can win. We march for the Trident now, we're outnumbered but we were outnumbered tonight too."

"What about the Lannisters? Or Jon?" Robert asked.

"We leave the foot here, under Bolton, they won't reach our host in time anyway. This means Connington can't harass us, he'll also send reports back that our army is still in the Stoney sept. Jon will regroup and march for the Trident, Bolton will then follow. Our foot will then take them in the rear in the battle causing confusion and chaos."

Yngvi looked at Ned in amazement. "Yes but what about the Lannisters?" Robert roared.

"They'll either stay at home or march. If we stay here then we're doomed," Ned said, the truth shining out of his grey eyes. Robert thought for a moment, still deciding on the plan. But it was Ned who spoke:

"We march in an hour."

Yngvi ran to his room, back to his whore, his bed and his nakedness.

"Still wondering if I'm a whore," she asked as he entered.

"No," he said as he kissed her,"a whore would of stolen my armour. A whore would of made me pay. And a whore most certainly wouldn't kiss me."

He kissed her then, hard. Her lips were soft and her mouth wet. Her hands gripped to his neck whilst his groped her breasts. She broke away and whispered her name in his ear:

"Wylla."

At least I'll know what to whisper when I die, he thought.


	6. Chapter 6

We are going to die, he thought. He smiled as he realised that yet again the rebels were outnumbered and, yet again he thought they were going to die.

He hummed a silent song he liked in his childhood, calming his nerves.

"Born of thunder, born of rain," he whispered, "king of thunder reigns again."

Beside him was Gorne, wearing boiled leather and a excessive amount of paint. His fingers slowly caressed the handles of his axes, stroking them; up and down. He had shaven his hair off and trimmed his beard, leaving no hair on his head or face, apart from his chin where he still grew his forked beard. A smirk was on his lips.

They were not on horse today, this battle they fought on foot as their mounts had died under them on this forced march.

They had slept for six hours and then marched, this continued until they reached the Trident. The new host that had gathered in the Vale had bolstered their numbers to thirty five thousand.

This included the Bolton foot, that may or may not show up, Yngvi thought. It also included men who were dead in the count, but Yngvi didn't even want to think about it. Ned and Robert had spread lies that their numbers were greater than they were, by counting all the men lost at the Stoney Sept.

They faced forty thousand; horse, men, and spear. It didn't include Connington's host, nor a possible Lannister host. In front of them stood forty thousand men, and they didn't have thirty thousand.

Robert was on his horse, his green and gold armour glimmered in the sun, trotting up and down the lines, roaring.

He didn't talk, he just roared like an animal.

Ned was nearby, surrounded by his now fiercely loyal bannermen. Well, you would be after seeing him cut men in half, Yngvi thought. He stayed on the ground at let his cavalry be led by Lord Dustin, who Ned says rides better than anyone in the North. He was guarded by his usual companions; Martyn Cassel, Ethan Glover, Theo Wull, Mark Ryswell along with Whorebane Umber. Howland stood beside Ned, his staff proudly displaying the Direwolf, now covered in blood and soot.

All sigils at the Sept were, he had two, a griffen and a dragon, stuffed inside his cuirass.

Ned and Robert commanded the middle- filled with Northmen, with Jon and Hoster holding the flanks. Hoster because he was still injured and Jon because his heir had died at the sept, cut down by Jon Connington.

Robert lifted his warhammer into the air and roared, and thirty thousand men roared back-or roughly thirty thousand.

Ned drew Ice, and put on his great helm, covering his grey eyes and stern face with grey metal.

His upper body was covered in metal, but his legs only had leather, the same was said for most Northern men. Favouring leather over hardened steel. Howland stood, ever faithful, in boiled leather.

Yngvi was armoured only in his cuirass and his vambraces, showing pale skin on his arms. On his legs he wore wool breaches and on his feet were leather boots, rising up to just below his knees.

On his head was his great helm, with larger eye slits and more breath holes than the average smith would allow. He had pressed a paint covered hand on the face of the great helm, the same paint that Gorne had covered himself in. The paint had dried and looked suspiciously like blood.

A rider rode out holding a white flag, he was all that stood between the two armies, him and a large ford. To call it a river would be wrong, it can fast but it only reached as high as the groin.

They could easily march across it, but so could they.

"Yngvi, Gorne, Howland let's go," Ned commanded, marching off to meet the rider. Robert also rode to meet the rider. They walked in silence, as they approached they all sheathed their weapons, all except Gorne, who still held his axe behind his back, freshly sharpened that morning. The rider stuck his spear into the ground, and eyed Gorne suspiciously.

Only then did they see he was wearing a white cloak.

"Darry, how are you?" Robert called with a smile, to him battle wasn't personal; he didn't hate Jonothor Darry, he hated Rhaegar.

Barry ignored him and spoke in a very monotonal voice, not even making eye contact with anyone, "Rhaegar says this battle is futile and the slaughter of such a large host is a crime against humanity, he is willing to discuss terms."

Gorne spoke up, "We are willing to discuss terms of surrender."

They all looked at him with eyes brimming with shock and amazement.

"Really?"

"Oh yes, now we don't have the proper facilities to encage such large numbers so...we are going to eat a lot of your host. I've never tasted Prince before."

Robert roared with laughter, while Darry fingered his sword.

"This is madness, I'll have all your heads, especially you..." He never got to finish. As he made his speech he had leaned in to threaten Ned, but all he got was Gorne's axe.

His head rolled around on the ground collecting dew. The horse spurred away with its headless rider.

"I think he lost his head," Gorne whispered as he kicked the head away with his foot,"shall we charge."

A roar went up in the rebels host as they realised what happened.

"There was no honour in that," Ned objected.

"He threatened to take your head, so I took his. If you've got a problem, take mine after the battle, not before." Gorne replied.

Soon both hosts were advancing towards each other.

"Send the cavalry in. I want a hole punched straight to Rhaegar. Do it now, Ned." Robert roared, before dismounting his horse. His squire gave him a great helm, black, but with antlers attached.

They merged into the ever advancing host, as their cavalry charged.

A wall of pike and spear formed in front of them. But Lord Dustin kept charging.

Flesh met steel. Victory met defeat. Life met death.

The screams of men and the whines of horse filled the air, but they kept charging. Finally the charge turned about.

The Lord Dustin dismounted, and joined the host, with less men than when he charged. A lot less.

"Robert, their pikes will stand. At the front they have blooded troops from the Stormlands and the Riverlands, behind them they have unblooded troops. Connington is there as well, I saw a griffen. Where's Bolton?" Dustin commanded, his armour slick with blood, his lance lost.

"Turned cloak," Ned stated,"or dead. No matter we are committed."

"Aye we are," the Greatjon roared.

The Targaryen host marched over the dead, rebels and loyalists alike.

"Stay behind me, kill anything that I miss," Gorne said, and without waiting for Yngvi to reply, charged.

Yngvi did too. His feet pounded on the ground, slipping occasionally.

Gorne kept charging. The pikes lowered, waiting.

Gorne drew his axe, without losing his stride, and threw it. The axe was embedded into a pikemans skull. He dropped the pike and collapsed. The pikeman behind tried to take his place, and the ones at his side aimed there's at Gorne, but it was to no avail.

Gorne knocked aside one pike and then attacked the pikemen. Hacking and slashing with his axe.

The pikemen around dropped their pikes to kill the intruder, so Yngvi killed them. As he thrusted the sword into a back, the wave hit.

No matter how bloodied the enemy was, they could not stand. They would not stand.

The pikes faltered, and the wave of men washed over them. Gorne had punched a hole into the lines, something the cavalry failed to do, with only his axe.

Men stood and fought. They stood noble. They stood brave. And they collapsed dead. Pikes were tossed aside. Useless now the rebels were inside the range. They drew swords or daggers. Some defended themselves well, others poorly, most ran.

The pikemen ran to cower behind their knights, or swordsmen.

But all they got was steel.

Yngvi slit one pikemans throat as he begged, on his knees, for mercy. He then defended himself against a rash attack. His opponent wielded his sword like an axe, sometimes even gripping the blade. He never thrusted, just hacked. He relied on sheer force and ferocity rather than actual skill.

His opponent went for a wild swing when Yngvi pivoted to the side, slipped past his guard and stabbed him with his dagger. He twisted then pulled it back, looking for his next opponent.

The pikemen, or what remained, regrouped. Interspersed between knights, there was no weakness in the line. The wave of rebels hit again.

It hit steel this time. Hiding behind shields, the knights easily repelled the first wave. Either by thrusting spears over the top, or by a sword from below. Yngvi watched as some peasant boy, sprinted into a shield, only to be knocked to the ground and a spear to the belly.

The flanks were both exposed, but in the chaos they couldn't defend it. Soon the Targaryens middle faltered.

Friend and foe were all around, battling it out. One on one, five on one, it didn't matter. You were attacked on all sides.

Howland slit someone's throat from behind, as he fell to his knees, blood pulsing from his throat, Howland speared his comrade in the gut. They died side by side.

It was no longer a battle, it was thousands of them. All important, all life and death. All ignorant of the bigger picture.

The unbloodied troops wouldn't push at the flanks, where the Dornish gained ground, instead they stood their ground and the Dornish faltered.

Yngvi didn't care, battle plans didn't matter anymore. In the heat of the moment all that mattered was your sword. And what was on the end of it.

Both sides poured their cavalries in to the fray. They charged running down friend and foe, skewering and slicing. Horses ran riderless, and knights fought horseless.

Then Yngvi saw the Direwolf come from behind the dragon. Roose had arrived. He was attacking the weakened flank, away from the Dornish. His men cut a bloody path through the unblooded troops easily enough.

A man appeared in front of Yngvi. He wore a battled old breastplate and carried a rusty old sword. He had no hair on his head and his skin on his face was tight and pockmarked. He thrusted weakly.

Yngvi slipped inside the guard and slashed downward. His sword was stuck. Stuck into flesh or bone or plate...and the knight drew his knife. Blood ran from his mouth, and fear filled his eyes, but he wasn't dead.

He's coming, Yngvi thought, almost laughing. A lesser man would quake with fear, at a man would not stop with a sword stuck in him, but Yngvi felt only admiration for the old man. He took the knife out of the mans frail hands, and stabbed, through skull and brain.

He left it in, and tried to get his sword out. He put his right foot on the mans chest and pulled. He pulled and pulled. Then he felt it, warm blood trickling down his leg and the cold in his hip. He pulled his sword from the old man, turned and slashed.

The sword cut the boys ear off and cut through his neck until it hit bone. The boy dropped dead to the floor, light blue eyes staring into the sky, but not seeing it.

Never seeing, never seeing again, Yngvi thought.

The boy was young and thin, he wore no armour only rags. He stabbed a steak knife into Yngvi's hip, and Yngvi partially decapitated him.

"Bastard," he whispered,"why were you here you bastard?"

He felt nothing, not the pain, or sorrow, just anger. He was of an age with Yngvi, but he had no reason to fight.

"Bastard!"

"Bastard!"

"Bastard!"

The word filled the air, and each time it did another man fell. Fell to Yngvi's blade.

Soon he no longer saw the enemy, nor the boy, just his father. Big and loud, in front of him.

"You gonna kill me boy?"

And Yngvi would try. He hacked, slashed and thrusted. He dodged, stepped and pivoted.

But still, no matter how many men fell, his father's words hung in his mind.

I just want to make you proud, he thought as silent tears fell from his eyes.

"You bastard!" He roared.

He no longer used his sword, he felt the bloodlust take over. He punched, kicked and headbutted.

Blood poured from his knuckles, but he couldn't feel the pain.

Gorne, his father, Eddard, Robert, Rhaegar, everything left his mind.

Blood.

Just blood.

He turned...

His feet went from under him. The ground rose up to meet him. He rolled as time slowed down. Mud and grass filled his vision then sky. He stopped rolling and heard a thud nearby.

His right eye had swollen up and blood ran down his face. He could feel its warmth, and as it ran over his mouth, he tasted salt. He felt groggy and his mind wandered from thought to thought, but only one reigned supreme; sword.

He saw it off to his left, lying on the grass surrounded by bodies. He rolled to reach it and then rolled back.

That's odd, he thought. When he rolled back he felt a hard object on his back. Then he saw the man and what he was holding.

A spear.

Yngvi was thrown into the air once more. This time he didn't see the ground, he didn't hear the wind and he couldn't feel the pain. He just saw black.

He couldn't move. Or was it that he wouldn't.

He saw the man raise the spear into the air.

Hurry up you cock, he thought. Unable to actually voice the words.

Did I take enough bastards with me? Did I earn my glory? He thought.

He waited.

The man was gone. Instead a smaller man stood over him, boiled leather and spear in hand.

Yngvi started to get up. His knees went from under him. Finally, after a few attempts, his knees complied to his commands and he stood.

Silence. No ringing or muffled sound, just deafening silence. An abyss.

His eye had swelled up, so he cut the skin near it, the blood escaped and he could see again. He picked up his sword. The battle still reigned.

He parried a thrust but was too slow on his counter. The blade cut his arm, a glancing blow. His opponent swung at Yngvi and their blades lock, so close together. Yngvi headbutted him.

His hearing returned and the drowsiness left him, to be replaced by a searing pain. The man swayed before Yngvi cut him down.

Then he saw him. Rhaegar.

Black armour, black horse, black cape. Red sword.

It twirled and spun, everywhere it moved blood followed. His cape floated in the wind revealing its red lining. On his crest was the three headed dragon with ruby eyes.

He has no shield, not many Targaryens around him. I can take him, Yngvi thought.

"Rhaegar," he screamed,"Rhaegar, fight me."

Men looked at him and he realised he was surrounded by Targaryens. He walked forward, his sword drawn.

He showed no fear on his face, he walked tall and arrogant.

One man charged at him but Yngvi easily dodged and countered, slaying him.

"I'll take him, your grace," said a man wearing white; enamelled armour and a white cloak.

The man stood a few inches shorter than Yngvi, but his shoulders were wide and his arms strong. He was covered in plate armour and held a shield. As he approached Yngvi he lifted his shield.

The knight went on the offensive, swinging a succession of cuts, upwards to the left then bringing the blade back the way it came. His body moved in perfect synch with his mind, the blade a full extension of his arm.

He thrusted. Yngvi rolled into the blade and slashed with his own, chipping the armour.

They circled each other, neither talking just watching. Yngvi adjusted his grip on his bastard sword, using both hands. He lifted it high above his head.

The knight took the bait. He lunged at Yngvi. Yngvi stepped to his side and attacked. His first strike was at the shield, it was a downward cut and almost tore it from the knights grasp. His second did as it came from the side.

The knight and him rallied a few strikes together, counter, parry. The fight was over though when the knight lifted his sword.

Yngvi stepped and stabbed, the extra reach of his sword piercing through the knights armpit. The knight collapsed.

Before Yngvi could finish him off, the spectators became combatants again.

He moved with speed and guile. Stepping here and there. Striking just when the time was right.

He slew a few before he heard it.

"Rhaegar!"

Robert was in the ford. Water washed around his legs, as he slowly regripped his warhammer.

"Let's end this now Rhaegar."

Rhaegar dropped from his horse. And took off his helm. His platinum hair unfolded. His face was strong and stern. His lilac eyes hid a pain and suffering no-one could imagine. He took off his cape and marched into the ford, fearlessly.

This man is a god, Yngvi thought.

Suddenly the battle no longer mattered, the war didn't. Here was the war.

Nearby the ford people were not fighting, they stood and watched. Watched as two men fought for the love of a women.

Robert tore off his helm too showing a snarling face.

The fight commenced.

Neither said a word as they moved in the water. Robert moved much quicker than Rhaegar. That's when Yngvi realised. Rhaegar has armour on his legs. Soon enough Rhaegar tired, his legs no longer moving.

A loyalist tried to come to his aid but Roose cut him down.

Roose, Yngvi wondered.

Rhaegar held on, twisting and turning, forcing Robert from the water. He pressed Robert. He stabbed through his plate armour, and Robert cursed. Robert swung his warhammer again, but Rhaegar just dodged then lunged, attacking weak points in his armour, especially his legs.

Then as Rhaegar stepped forward, Robert thrusted his warhammer, knocking the rubies from his armour.

The prince collapsed to his knees near the bank. Blood ran from his mouth and every breath a struggle.

"Lyanna," he whispered before the light faded from his lilac eyes. His head dropped, but the prince stayed kneeling, like a septon in prayer.

As the prince died, men crawled into the bloody river, searching for his rubies. Robert walked up to his adversary and kicked him to the ground.

His legs trailed off into the stream, but his body stayed limp and lifeless.

Men dropped their weapons.

The prince is dead, the day is won.

The bane of thunder, killer of rain.

King of thunder lives again.


	7. Chapter 7

He woke in a musty room, dust hanging thick in the air. An old man with a grey beard stood over him, like death personified.

The stranger. He forced liquid into his mouth, it was thin and bitter. In a wave of cursing and cussing, he spat it out. He slipped off back into his dreams, where the pain left him, and the horror too.

Death. Death was everywhere. Bodies, lifeless on the ground, blood rushing in the river, and crows circling above.

The stench, Yngvi thought. The stench was thick and strong, forcing its way inside you. The battle had only been a few hours ago, but the sun had baked thousands of men in their armour.

It smelt like a mixture of rotten meat, cooked meat and cheese.

Not to mention the shit.

Some had relieved themselves whilst dying, others just after, but all the dead shit themselves.

Except Rhaegar, pompous prick. Even in death he kept his dignity, Yngvi thought.

Every sense was attacked.

Screams filled the air in a deafening roar. Calls for mothers, or friends mostly. One man was different, Crowfood's son.

"Tell my wife," he started, the effort clearly a struggle,"I really do hate her." As the men laughed around him, he died.

Yngvi himself had given the gift of mercy to a few people, one boy had his entrails running down his leg from a slash in his belly.

"Get a maester, I can put it back in, please ser."

Yngvi slipped his dagger between his ribs. His eyes opened wide momentarily, but then he slipped off into the darkness.

Friend or foe, it didn't matter, the silent sisters prepared the dead and the men helped the living.

"Does it smell of cheese? Then cut it off."

Butchery. Limbs being taken to save lives. One man slit his own throat to stop it from happening.

"Who'd want to live like that?" He asked.

No-one could give an answer. Not just to him, but to anyone.

What happens now? Who leads us? Do we take Kings landing or Storms end? Where's Lyanna?

Where is Lyanna?

All this death, all this sorrow because of one girl and two men who lusted over her. Aerys had his madness, but his bouts of insanity were controlled until he burnt Lord Stark. All because of Lyanna.

Thousands at the Stoney sept and thousands here, dead.

Kings landing will be taken but many will die, he thought, she had best be worth it.

Ned and Robert certainly thoughts so.

He walked around the field of death searching for the pair. Blood covered every step he took.

It was warm and there was no rain, so the blood dried up on his skin. It cracked everytime he moved.

He found Robert and Ned soon enough. They were sat inside a tent being tended to by a Maester, they were not alone though.

"Kill him my lord, he is a Kingsguard. When he wakes he will try to kill you. I'll do it if you want."

Yngvi drew his blade and sat down, he started sharpening it with a whetstone.

"Of course you will Roose. The great Roose Bolton, slayer of Ser Selmy. I took his sword and gave him his wounds. He still lives, I say the gods have a fate in store for him. A fate, we can't comprehend. He'll live. I'll hear no more about it." He passively waved his hand at Roose, and nodded towards the exit.

Roose's pale eyes, normally ice, now burnt with a passion. He clenched his fists and teeth. He nodded slowly at Yngvi and left.

"Someone please tell me, why he didn't call me a cannibal, or a bastard...or anything?" Yngvi asked, his eyes following Roose.

"Because my Lord, we've told him of your new lordship." Silence hung in the air as Yngvi failed to respond to Ned.

"Well, that's very unexpected," Yngvi said, sarcasm oozing out of every word.

"Yes well, you have earnt it. Disarming the greatest knight in the land, protecting your future King, and most importantly, being a great drinker." Robert roared. It was true, he had drank Robert under the table a few times.

"My wife will be thoroughly pleased," Yngvi whispered as he thought back on his new wife he left at the Sept.

"Wife. Aren't you too young to marry? Ned said you are five and ten," Robert questioned. His eyes were swimming in suspicion and pain as the maester sealed up another wound with thread.

"I married a whore at the Stoney sept. I had to protect her honour," he said blankly, showing disinterest in the matter.

He smiled as both Ned and Robert laughed.

A maester set about sewing up the wound on Yngvi's face, so he sat perfectly still. The wound was deeper than Yngvi thought and it refused to heal on its own accord. Yngvi grimaced as the needle went in and out, in and out, feeling each thread rub against his skin.

"Ned, you will take all the horse ahead to King's landing in my place. Take the city and kill that bastard Aerys, but keep Elia alive. She'll be a good hostage. Me and Jon will follow with the foot.

Robert licked his lips, and rubbed his neck. "Tywin has moved his horse down the Gold road. Its a race now Ned, win it."

Ned stood up and bowed to the rebel King and left.

He awoke back in the room. It was darker than before and colder. A cold sweat cling to his skin like a thin film, he shivered and tried to rub it off to no avail. He was so cold, but his face burnt white hot.

The saddle still chaffed him. He hated it more everyday. His leather pants made him perspire, and the sweat would find its way to the raw skin. It was like a flame, licking at his skin, testing his resolve. He often poured water into his small clothes in the attempt to quench the flames, but it would just ignite from the last cinder. He could feel every yard taken by his horse, eight thousand and ninety two pains. That's how far from the camp he was.

Or was it more. The pain made him dizzy, the loss of blood made him nauseous, and the heat made him tired. His mind wandered, darting in and out of thoughts; dreams, moments, desires, all relived on this terrible ride.

He felt hot. Much hotter than he should of done. The sun was setting yet he sweated profusely.

He drank from his wineskin. The refreshing liquid filled his mouth, the sweetness dancing on his tongue. It was so cold and wet. Then he swallowed. His mouth felt dry, and bitter. It hurt to move his tongue, he could feel the dirt in his mouth. He drank some more. The instantaneous relief went everytime he swallowed, to be replaced by a beast, eating and tearing the back of his throat and shitting on his tongue.

He was panting. He never pants. In battle he grunted, putting more strength into every movement. In bed he was controlled, focussing on his breathing rather than the task at hand.

Or at cock, he thought but he was unable to smile, instead he blinked hard and long.

He tried to focus his mind. His arms felt heavy, his muscles burnt, tender to the touch. He felt a cold wave pass over him and light. Weightless on his horse. He had forgotten to breath.

The rhythmic song of his breathing returned. A harmony really. Constantly interrupted by pain.

Pain all the way to the capital.

"BRING. ME. STARK!" Each word was manhandled out of his mouth. It was so violent but so desperate he couldn't help but take pity on his own voice. The room was empty and black, blacker than night, blacker than death's cloak. It was the void between this life and the next, and he could feel himself slipping away.

He fought it, fought it with all his might. Every muscle that could flex, every artery that could pulse and every tongue that could swear fought it. His groans got quieter and quieter as the darkness took him once more.

The sun was setting as they entered the capital. A glorious lion danced above the gates, twisting and twirling with delight.

Crimson was everywhere. On the walls, in the dirt in the road. Bodies drank from it, faces contorted in fear of it. Fires cackle in the distance and a faint glow filled the night sky.

Death didn't fill the air, not yet. Just shit and ash.

They continued to ride, through the barren streets into the Red keep, all the while screams of terror hung in the air.

Then they were in the Great hall. Lannister men stood at the walls, spears gripped tight, watching, waiting to strike. Ned spurred his horse onwards, so did Yngvi, the Direwolf gripped in his hand.

In front of them stood the Iron throne, a warped mesh of swords, growing ever outwards. It looked like a weirwood, blades becoming branches, pommels becoming leaves. But it was so black. So terribly black. And instead of the face of the Gods, there was a lion. His cursed sword on his lap, smeared with blood.

The King was slumped at the front of the throne, his face drowning in a pool of blood.

His smell filled his nose. The smell of shit and death.

And cheese.

Cheese.

He woke up, back in the room, still dark. He threw up. And again. The vomit was black...at first.

He couldn't stop. He started throwing up water and blood, and everything. Then at the verge of his despair he stopped.

"Don't. Cut. Anything. Off!"

The silence called, and the darkness beckoned once more.

He couldn't focus on their faces. Violet eyes, so perfect, so beautiful; so dead. Her skin was tanned and bloody, jagged knife wounds covered every part of her body. The boy was a mess, his face gone, just bone and brain. Faceless. They were carried in Crimson cloth, a lion roaring blood.

Tywin had placed them in the front of the throne, Rhaegars children.

We lost the race.

The lions had pounced on the weak, and ripped the young from the mothers breast and know proudly held the corpses in its jaws. One knight held a grin on his face, the giant looked indifferent, not caring. But the lion of Lannister, the great Tywin, hid his disgust and shock in his eyes. He hid it well, so did Robert.

An uneasy alliance, but a necessary one. It didn't make it easy to accept.

We have to swallow their shit, and praise the cooking skills.

"Oathbreaker," Ned roared, bringing Yngvi back into the room, "you should take the black, Kingslayer."

"Make me, Stark."

"This is unacceptable, we give you an alliance and you spit in our faces," Tywin roared, his golden eyes, sparkling with Emeralds.

"You give us treachery. You give us rape. You give us murder. You give us dead children to walk over to mount the throne. You give us shit, and expect us to praise the taste. Fuck you Lannister," Yngvi roared back. The fires in Tywin's eyes burnt in a bright fury.

"And who is this bastard..." He couldn't finish as Yngvi's fist connected with his jaw. His temper had taken over and now he was slumped aside the dead babies.

The giant was already on him. His mailed fist crashing down on him, sliding off his armour.

Yngvi grabbed his gorget and thrusted his head, covered by his greathelm into him.

The Greatjon dragged him away, whilst the giant twitched and gargled blood on the floor, his dagger still sheathed in Yngvi's side.

Outside the Greatjon was laughing, but Yngvi just collapsed, the world fading to black.

Is this death, he thought before it enveloped him.

He breathed in, the air no longer felt musty, but rather pure and refreshing. He breathed in and out, small casual breaths. He no longer felt warm or cold, and didn't jerk and twitch around in the bed. He rubbed his hand through his long black hair, his fingers splitting the strands, and yawned.

A small man stood vigil. No, boy, his stubble wasn't covering his face fully. He had a wide chest but thin long arms. His hair was a dirty blonde and his stubble looked black. His eyes were brown. He wasn't particularly handsome but no one would call him ugly.

He had a sword at his hip and a surcoat bearing a mark he did not recognise. A green lobster on a white field, but in the lobster's claws there was a black adder trapped.

"Boy, talk," Yngvi commanded, his voice rough and sore.

"My lord...what do you want me to say?" The boy's voice uncontrollably breaking. It was very funny, but Yngvi knew better to laugh.

"I want you to say I'm the prettiest bell at the ball," he said sarcastically.

"You are the prettiest bell at the ball my lord," the boy could hardly finish before Yngvi erupted in gales of laughter.

"Boy, I want your name. Your house. And information about the current state of the war, understand."

"Eswik, my lord. I serve House Magnar of Adder's nest. And we won. Storms end has fallen and Stannis sails towards Dragonstone."

Yngvi was bemused,"House Magnar of Adder's nest? Are you touched boy? Bring me Stark, or Gorne. Stark is the one besides the King, Gorne is the bald one fucking against the wall."

The boy looked shocked at Yngvi's use of language, it is difficult to remember that they were of an age.

"House Magnar of Adder's nest is your house, my lord, it differentiates between House Magnar on Skagos. Lord Stark chose your colours and keep name, before he left or Storms end," Yngvi shot up but the boy had more,"Gorne has left for Dragonstone with special orders and Lord Stark rides...well rides, my lord."

Yngvi had his pants on, no small clothes he had not the time. He put his boots on and barked orders at his new boy, "Find out where immediately, talk to Jon Arryn, or Robert. Prepare my horse, and after I leave go to the Stoney sept, find Wylla, and take her to Winterfell to await my return."

He tied his breeches up, pulled on a thin shirt and put his cuirass on by the time he finished talking. The boy didn't move.

Yngvi drew his sword, "Eswik, you will do as I have instructed or I'll take your head."

"Lord Stark says you are not allowed to leave your bed," the boy shrieked, fear in his eyes.

"Does Lord Stark have a sword to your throat? Answer no, so do as I say," and with that the boy ran off, whilst Yngvi put on his vambraces.

**This one was not a good chapter. I wrote three drafts of this, but I felt this one captured his delirious state and his descent into it, the best. Now, I want reviews on this chapter in particular because of how uncomfortable I am with it.**

**Also, I have a few ideas where I want to go with this story, but I want to hear some of your views.**

**Really its because I still can't comprehend the Red Wedding and I'd need to revisit my Psychiatrist if I wrote about it.**

**So recap; REVIEW.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Fist off I'd like to say this is the last chapter before I move on to Robb, no more Eddard. Secondly, this chapter is based off of assumption, for example, I believe Lyanna was the Knight of the Laughing Tree, that Rhaegar found her, uncovered her identity and Lyanna went willingly to Dorne and the three kingsguard there protect Rhaegar's son and heir and that's why they had to die.**

The night was cool and crisp, the stars in the sky looked like diamonds scattered on black silk. The moon was out in earnest, with no clouds obstructing it, it was beautiful. The night sky was beautiful. Yet he didn't notice.

He fed his horse oats with rabbit blood mixed in, whilst he ate rabbit stew. Was it a stew? Rabbit and mushrooms in its own juices, should it be classed as a stew. The rabbit was stringy and the broth wasn't thick enough but he ate it. He had to. He had to keep his strength up.

New scars covered his body. An arrow on the back of his leg, a cut to his hip, the Mountain's dagger in his side. Nasty looking thing, he twisted it making it much worse, instead of a nice easy line, it looked like a circle with a jagged cross through it. He rubbed salt on the most important one, the scar on his face.

Pycelle had to squeeze the green pus out of the stitching and the wound, he cut away the dead material, then he poured boiling wine into it. Then he closed it up. The fever had him for almost a week, before it broke. He couldn't remember much of what happened before it, but it didn't sound good.

"If you think you can escape Tywin Lannister, my lord, he'll find you," Pycelle had stuttered out,"and the Mountain will kill you."

"The Mountain has tried and failed already, and if Tywin wants to find me, he can come to my keep, I'll serve his son's cock to him," he looked Pycelle straight in the eye. How dare he threaten anyone, oathbreaking treacherous scum.

Tywin was mad, so very mad. He had demanded- demanded that Robert take Yngvi's head. Lannister's pride was damaged more than Tywin's face, and that was unforgivable. Robert laughed at him, of course he did.

But Tywin had tried to get revenge, he sent a thief for Yngvi's armour. The thief is dead now, but the message was clear.

Yngvi had ridden out that day, fully armoured with plate metal and valyrian steel, he even waved at Tywin and the Mountain, with his black eyes and broken nose, as he rode passed.

Ned had gone to Storms end and liberated it, then he had ridden off to find Lyanna. But where?

"Varys."

"My Lord, I have heard whispers about you...and your friend. From what I heard, you are a savage cannibal, rude and filled with low cunning. I am pleasantly surprised to find you are quite polite. And handsome, even with that scar."

He had never been called handsome before, he didn't even recognise the word. Blood rushed to his cheeks, embarrassed that the eunach said that.

"Thank you my lord. But why do you say I'm polite," he said thoroughly confused by the perfumed man in front of him.

"Well, most men refer to me as the spider, the eunach and other less pleasant things. Even when they say Lord they do not hide their mockery or disgust. But you seem to hide it well, my lord."

Yngvi wondered what to say,"Lord Varys, I have no hatred or resentment towards you because you haven't shown me cause to. Whether you do or don't have a cock is no concern of mine, and I doubt it makes much difference to you. If you so wish I can feign resentment, but the task will require effort, effort I wish to apply else where."

A thin smile crept over Varys' lips.

"Oh my, you are so very good with words. Now where would your efforts be needed? One wonders. Could it be Lord Stark has abandoned one of his most loyal bannermen? Has he given in to his other bannermen? What would you have with me Lord Magnar."

"I'd have Lord Stark from you," he states bluntly, staring straight into the man's eyes, not flinching away or blinking.

He ponders on it for a moment, "Not Gorne, but Lord Stark. Dear, my little birds must have been mistaken. What do I get in return?"

"Gorne is not with Lord Stark," he said, ignoring the question,"why is he not with Stark?"

"You tell me, Stark went off south,"**South**,"whilst Gorne follows Stannis to Dragonstone. Only the gods know why."

He has gone south. It took him a few moments to piece the information together.

"Where are they in the mountains?" He almost shouted due to his anxiety.

"Which mountains?" The sarcasm thicker with each word.

"The Dornish ones. The red ones. Elia Martell was Dornish and Rhaegars wife, it would mean that they would build him a place if he asked. Its far enough away from Robert and his war, perfect for keeping Lyanna safe and secure," he softly whispered oblivious to Varys, his mind racing to find a conclusion, the words to follow his train of thought.

"Why not Dorne?"

"No. Dorne could never protect the woman that dishonoured Elia. It had to be in the mountains..."

"I thought Rhaegar captured Lyanna?" Varys interrupted with a slight smile and mocking tone.

"He whispered he name before he died, that's something I can't explain. He loved her. Cared for her more than himself. He has left some of his Kingsguard there, hasn't he?"

Varys smiled pleasantly, "Yes he has dear. Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the White cloaks, Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Arthur Dayne, the sword of morning. Very skilled fighters, some say better than Rhaegar..." He let it hang in the air for a moment. "Off the Prince's path you can pick up the trail."

Yngvi had turned to walk away when he heard Varys' call: "Good luck Yngvi. Get there before it begins."

He wanted to ask what begins? Even now in the mountains he wanted to ask. But he just slipped away into the shadows and disappeared.

The mountains reached forever onward into the sky. So close to touching it, but not quite reaching. It was a humbling thought: no matter how big you are, you can't touch the sky.

It was peaceful in the mountains. The rose road had soldiers returning home, riders to kings landing, and bandits everywhere. But here, it was serene, untouched by man.

Completely wild.

There was no wind this night, so the fine red sand that had plagued his sleep, wouldn't tonight.

He rested his head on his bicep and slipped of into the darkness.

I'm one day behind them, he thought joyously.

The wind raged and whined, and the waves waxed and waned, and the thunder clapped, a bolt of light cascading down to the ground. There was no rain only the snow. It drifted to the ground so lazily.

H knew where he was. He had knelt here before when his brother had died. For three days and three nights, he knelt before this tree, praying to be strong enough to avenge him. The white branches like arms beckoning for a warm embrace. The face carved on the tree showed pain and grief, but most of all madness. The face was laughing. A bloodlusty laugh, violent and aggressive. A tear hung in its eye, was it for the pain or for the laughter, Yngvi couldn't tell.

The thunder crashed again. The scene felt different, and then he saw it. The face was no longer wood, but flesh. The face looked familiar, sharp features, thick hair, deep eyes, then so foreign, blue eyes, and auburn hair.

"Can you save them?" The face asked,"Can you save my family?"

"Who are you?"

"Just a cripple, but could you save my family?"

"I don't know who your family are?"

The face smiled so softly. "I saw you, kneeling in front of the hearttree in Winterfell. You swore you would protect my family."

The realisation dawned on him. No-one was in the Godswood, only him and the tree.

"I will protect them, show me how?"

The face smiled once more but the sadness was in his eyes. "By fire and blood." The face drifted off into the distance, but another face appeared from the tree.

No, not a face, a man. Kneeling before the tree. A babe in his arms. The man had brown eyes and black hair, his beard wasn't quite done growing yet, but it was unmistakably him.

Dad.

The thunder crashed around them. The rage was clear on his fathers face.

But he didn't talk, he just knelt in the snow as the storm raged around him.

The storm stayed the same but the years changed. His beard grew and his eye went. His belly grew as well.

"I just want my son safe. He is my last son, don't take him from me,"he whispered,"keep Yngvi safe." He then raise his knife to his throat and as the blade ran over his skin, the blood darted from his throat, covering the floor in crimson. His father swayed for a moment then fell. The blood flowed from his limp body, conquering the white snow.

He woke up. The sunlight darted through the mountain peaks. Yngvi swallowed hard. He still breathed heavily. He knew. He just knew, even though it was a dream. His father was dead. Winter was coming.

He immediately got ready, the fire still cackled down mostly to cinders, he mounted his horse and rode hard. Fully armoured he forced his horse to gallop.

Finally of in the distance he saw it. A spire. A tower, made of red brick. It was so close to him, yet so far away.

Ice was on the floor, its darkness so inviting, next to it was white. A pale blade was resting next to a white body, fully armoured. More bodies were around them, two more were armoured in white steel, the others mostly in leather. One thing they all had was blood.

He had failed. Failed the tree. Failed his vow. Failed House Stark. Failed Ned. He had failed.

He slowly urged his horse forward, softly trotting to the tower.

"Yngvi."

The voice was familiar, he had heard it shout at the Trident.

"Yngvi? Shit, Yngvi."

This voice was familiar too. He looked around searching for them. He broke off into a gallop, each step bringing them closer. He saw them.

Howland and Lord Dustin, slumped in the doorway of the Tower, the door wide open.

"Yngvi, good to see you. Tell me, do you know how to put guts back in?" The lord Dustin said rather enthusiastically, sarcasm oozing from his question. Only then did Yngvi realise that his hands were gripping a blood soaked belly.

"No but I can ease the pain," he replied grimly, slowly drawing his dagger.

"Good man. I took that Hightower down but that bastard of morning caught me good. Howland here won't put me out of my grief," he said grinning.

"You can't be serious," the small man stood up,"you would kill a friend."

"Reed, I would put him out of his suffering. He'd take days to die, this way is quick and painless."

"Howland, go check up on Ned. Hmm, I'm sure he needs some help."

Howland looked at them both, his eyes brimming with disbelief, but he went inside, defeated.

Yngvi dropped from his horse, walked over and slipped his dagger between the man's ribs, and into his heart. His eyes went wide, his body spasmed. But then he died. His eyes went dull and he was still. The wound hissed as he pulled out the blade.

"Goodbye friend."

Death had dulled him. Only battle excited him now. He walked into the tower. A huge hearth greeted him, along with pots and pans and meat. A set of stair led up further into the Tower, tapestries hung on the wall, images of flowers and lovers. At the top of the stairs he was greeted by a library and then more stairs. Finally he came to the top of the tower.

A double bed, stuffed with goose and swan feathers, with fur quilts covering it. A body was spread on the bed, her legs wide. Clutched in her hands there was a crown of blue roses. Her grey eyes stared listlessly into the distance, her black hair, unkempt but beautiful. Blood covered the sheets.

Ned sat on the edge of the bed, a newborn babe in his arms.

"I promise," he whispered, over and over. Howland stood besides him, his hand resting on his shoulder. No one moved for a while.

"She was worth it Ned. All of it. The war, the death. She was worth it. Sorry, we couldn't save her, but at least we can save her child," Yngvi said, as he closed her eyes.

"He is my bastard," he whispered softly, "He is my bastard!" He shouted now. Thunder reigned in his cold eyes.

"Promise me. The lad is my blood, never betray me."

He couldn't say the truth, he didn't have to. They knew. And they knew why they had to keep this secret.

"He is...Jon...Snow," Ned said softly.

They knew though.

"Why are we here?" Yngvi asked. Both him and Howland tended to the horses as Ned went inside the keep.

"Arthur Dayne's sister. And his sword. Ned is returning Dawn to it's family, and is saying farewell to his love," Howland sighed.

Yngvi's interest perked up. "His love. This has become a rather entertaining conversation. Who is she? How did they meet?"

Howland looked at him and sighed, "Arthur Dayne's sister, Ashara? Asha? No Ashara Dayne. Anyway, at Harrenhal Ned met her and talked and danced and ran of with her. He swore he would ask his father to make the match for them to be wed. They would be perfect together, his grey eyes like steel, and her velvet eyes like silk. Brandon went and got himself killed, though," Howland trailed off, sadness in his eyes, "and honour dictated that Ned...marry in his sted."

"And Ned has just killed her brother. Between marriage and the slaying of her kin...I don't know which is more of a romance killer?"

Howland didn't laugh, "We don't choose who we love, and its not easy to love someone and lose them. Why do you think he left us out here?"

Ned appeared at the doorway. Defeat in his eyes. As he walked off, a beauty ran after him. Dark hair, deep violet eyes and tanned skin. Her lips locked with Neds, swallowing him, but only for a moment. She broke off.

"I love you," he whispered. Tears filled her eyes.

"I loved you," her voice broke and a single tear ran down her cheek,"never come back, Eddard of House Stark."

She left his embrace and slowly drifted back, loathing and grief flashing across her face.

Ned walked away. Tears brimming in his wintery eyes. He refused to let them fall. Not now. He would meet her again, this life or the next, and he would love her always.

And no gods will stop me, old or new, he thought.

He knew what she was going to do. Between the death of her brother, and his bastard child, he knew what she would do. Still he walked away. His damned honour force him too. He promised her his hand, and all he had given her was grief.

**Yes, the war is over. It was really fun to write. As always I want reviews and opinions. Also I want a motto for House Magnar at Adder's Nest. Should I do canon or drift into the unknown with non-canon, its up to you my one reader.**

**P.S sorry for the late posting, I had my CBT all day on Wednesday, then I got my GCSE results on Thursday, then I had to enroll for college. The nightmare of an adolescent teenage boy huh.**


	9. Chapter 9

Dark wings, dark words, he thought.

His solar was dark. The candle had flickered out hours before, but Yngvi couldn't change it. He was still in shock.

Two ravens had arrived, one after the other. Adder's nest kept no maester, so Yngvi was the only one to know. Know that the North had been betrayed again.

The capital was filled with liars and murderors, Ned will not survive there.

Whatever you hear, don't believe it, its Lannister lies. Stannis is the true king until Gorne returns. No matter what, help Robb. Good luck old friend, Eddard Stark, Hand of the King.

He read it over and over again, he believed every word. Joffery was not the king, then the next letter came:

Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North and Hand of the King, has been arrested for treason.

There was more to it but Yngvi had thrown it in the fire.

Liars and cowards, not a single honourable soul.

Robert had got fat after taking up drinking, he drank to ignore the problems; his wife, his children, his brothers and the realm. He was king but he wanted the woman.

I want the woman too, Yngvi thought. The memory of that day still haunted him, the blue roses, the smell of death in the air, but all of that faded with time, her face was a constant. Each year it grew more bolder more detailed. He couldn't say if it was even her face anymore, his mind could of twisted it, changed it, but he believed it was her. And that was all that mattered to him, all that mattered to Robert and Ned too.

Her beauty that destroyed a dynasty and forged history.

War. War once more. He thought he had seen the last of it. He thought the Greyjoy rebellion would be the end of that part of his life, and yet the call to arms would come. Winterfell would call, and Yngvi would answer.

So he sat in the dark. Questioning his oath. Should he serve House Stark and go Winterfell with his men, or Ned and rescue him.

He sharpened his sword, he applied oil once more and rubbed it, up and down the blade making it sparkle in the moonlight. He could see the folding of the metal if he looked closely.

It was an artform he wished he could understand or comprehend. But he was death, a walking death. He had no time for art or feelings; only war.

"Yngvi, what are you doing in here, come to bed," her soft voice enticed,"its cold without you."

He laughed slightly a small smile forming on his lips,"And how is my whore doing?"

"I didn't know you could afford whores, but I am your lady wife, the mother of your children and I do believe that I'm am agitated that my lord husband is asking for whores when I keep him well satisfied," she had stepped into the moonlight, her cheeks had a soft glow to them and her thin hands gripped her ever growing bump. He carrassed her warm hands and slowly reeled her into him, sitting on his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his hair whilst he gazed into her eyes.

"How long have we been married now Wylla?" He couldn't help but thrown, he couldn't leave her, not again.

"Long enough for me to know what's next," she kissed him softly on the lips, when she pulled away tears were swimming in her eyes,"don't go. Don't leave. Please, stay! With me and the children." She bit her lower lip.

"I'll return. The children will stay, except Eddard and Howland," she laughed at the name.

"You know he likes the black adder," her voice went deeper at the name, mocking her sons name.

He slowly smiled, his hands carressing her hips. He swallowed hard, and sighed.

"I don't think I'll return alive. Not this time," the words fell from his tongue, and hung in the air. He swallowed again, his throat had become parched and raw. He waited a moment before returning her gaze.

She slapped him. He didn't flinch or let go of her. She slapped him again.

"Never say that. Never again, its not just your life its your son's lives too," her voice was direct and commanding. He wanted to believe her, he really did, but he dreamed again. Before the ravens came, he dreamed the dream he hadn't dreamed in such a long time.

The face had come. It hadn't aged, it was exactly like he remembered, so vivid and poigniant. His warning echoed in his mind, his desperate cry for help.

I can't tell her, she won't understand.

He never kept secrets from her. He told her everything. He told about Pyke and its burning fires, he told her about his father. But not this. This was his one secret.

"You start believing it, you die. Not just you, the boys die too," her voice cracked a little,"I can't lose my boys."

"You won't," he said it immediately, anger in his voice,"no-one will hurt my boys."

He held her gaze. He kissed the bump; his unborn child.

**Two days later...**

"When were you going to tell me?"

The voice was filled with anger, and he slammed his fist onto the table. His hair was black, the sweat slick and thick. He was a head shorter than his twin and a couple of stone lighter, but he was toned.

His breeches were undone, and so was his simple tunic, his boots were on the wrong feet, and his hair wasn't tied back. He seemed oblivious to all this though.

"I see they don't call you the black adder because of the colour of your cock, sweet brother," his twin had lighter hair, but still dark, and a thicker jaw and chin, apart from that they were almost identical. In appearance anyhow.

"Shut up, Ed, I wasn't talking to you. Father, why didn't you tell me that Robb has called his banners? Why?" He shouted. His face had gone red in anger, he bared his teeth as well. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had turned white. His jaw was locked tight.

"Son, tell me, did you not find that scroll in the tower?" This silenced the boy, "Isn't that an unusual place to put delicate information? Maybe we put it there so when, let's say, a second son takes the maidenhead of a Karstark, he finds the scroll, realises his mistake, and rushes to his father, cock out as well." He mocked. Throughout he made elaborate hand gestures, only at the end did his son realise his open breeches. "But seeing the blood on your sword you took her anyway. I'm very disappointed son, but then again, Alys Karstark is a beautiful girl, I'll put the match forward."

Yngvi's son went white.

"Then again, I do believe Rickard would gut you, like the adder you claim to be if he heard you defiled his daughter," he paused and looked his son in the eye,"go get ready we leave in an hour."

"I'm The Black Adder. Just like the Blackfish, I don't see anyone mocking him," he looked at both of them before walking out.

"The blackfish didn't come up with his name, his brother did," Eddard said with a smirk, before turning to look at his father, "Yngvi why are you taking him with us?"

"He is your brother. He is a skilled fighter and has an eye for strategy. Besides if I leave him at home he would just run away, its easier this way. And don't call me Yngvi, I'm your father," he said slowly.

"What like the time he went to Skagos to help Cousin Urng?" Eddard said with a smile.

"He's never been Skagos," Eddard stayed quiet,"has he?" Silence filled the solar, "Seven hells curse the boy. He was the one to destroy House Varg. It was a noble house." Silence reigned again for a moment,"Do you mean to tell me that he didn't go to the Dreadfort to make peace with Roose?"

"No father. Roose is still angry that he killed four of his men, Howland sent him their cocks. Father in Howlands defence, they were rapers."

Yngvi let out a sigh. "That's not the point. Roose Bolton is a dangerous man, I've angered him and now my son has angered him. He will have his revenge, you do know that. Damn that boy. He thinks with his swords; blade and cock. What else has he done that I should know about?"

Eddard scratched the back of his head, and swallowed hard.

"He sent a raven to King's landing, saying he will feed the king his heart...I'm sorry father I tried to stop him," he finished speaking and only silence could be heard.

Yngvi laughed. Just a little at first, but it soon became a roar, filling his solar. Eddard didn't join him.

"He reminds me so much of my father; impatient, arrogant bastard. He'll mature in time, but he will be a handful until then," Yngvi said.

"Arrogant bastard. That nice to know father," Howland said. His hair was oiled and tied back, whilt stubble slowly grew on his chin. His brow was furrowed and rage burst from his eyes. He wore the same black breeches, the same black boots. He added a pair of black leather gloves and black leather armour. On his sword belt he kept a sword and two axes, his hands slowly carressed them.

"Aye, arrogant bastard. Keep your mouth shut when we come to Winterfell."

And with that they mounted their horses and rode, their men at arms behind them.

Once more into the breach.


	10. Chapter 10

They were training in the yard, Eddard and Howland. The big feast was tonight but both boys wanted to impress the older lords. The clash of steel filled the yard. Eddard was fighting the Smalljon whilst Howland fought a Karstark, Eddard? Torhen? Harrion? He didn't know. His brothers were watching though.

"Your boy doesn't fight fair, Yngvi. He won't stand and fight, he just skips around like a craven," Rickard roared at him, his son missing his strike again.

"Good, it'll teach your sons a lesson; don't fight fair. Rhaegar fought fair, so did that Darry from the Kingsguard...Greatjon, what happened to them?"

"One got beheaded by your friend...what's his name now? You know the one, red teeth, likes axes, pissed Roose around. Anyway, he cut Darry's head off, and Rhaegar got his chest smashed in," the Greatjon replied.

"Rhaegar and Robert fought in single combat. It was honourable and fair," the Karstark replied with a smirk.

"Rhaegar had ridden, night and day from Dorne to the Trident. He wore solid plate armour, and fought Robert in the stream. He could hardly move. It wasn't a fair fight, just that Rhaegar was dumb enough to believe it was. Now tell me, do you want your son to be a Rhaegar, or a Robert?" Yngvi didn't take his eyes off the training yard. Howland easily disarmed the, now, exhausted Karstark youth, holding his blade to his throat, whilst Eddard slipped past the Smalljon's defence. He slowly placed his sword near his guts.

A small clap echoed around the spectators. The Magnar boys hadn't even broken a sweat.

"You were at the Trident?" A small voice asked. Yngvi turned his head to the sound.

Brown hair, soft curls, and the beginnings of a red beard. Tully. Yet there was something about the eyes. They were not grey, but the brown was spotted with silver. Stark.

"Yes I fought at the Trident. Robb Stark, I presume?" The boy nodded. He already stood of a height with Ned and easily had his frame. "I fought with your father against the mad king, then against the Iron born. I will happily continue my oath to House Stark, my lord."

"What House are you from, my lord?"

"I'm surprised your Lord father didn't tell you seeing he helped name it. My name is Lord Yngvi of House Magner of the Adder's Nest. The two boys down there are mine. Eddard, my oldest and heir, and Howland, his twin," he replied, slowly pointing to his children.

"Good names, yet I doubt they are twins. The black adder has taken a liking to, how do I put this, putting his adder in ladies pies. He also seems to have grown fond of fighting. Yet I see Eddard out in the Godswoods every day. Are they good fighters?" His voice was soft so only Yngvi could hear.

"Yes, Howland has more stone in his blood than his brother. When you raise children you will understand, it is hard reigning them in. Its better for everyone if you let them make their own mistakes," he sighed, "The problem is, Howland never seems to realise he has made a mistake."

Robb laughed, "Are they good fighters?"

"Well, let's see," he said, voice filled with false excitement.

Howland had been called back into the fray, his sword drawn, but hanging loose in his hand. Then the Greyjoy boy stepped up, sword and wooden shield in his hands. Theon was fully padded up, he even had a helm on, yet Howland only had his boiled leather on, a thing he never took off. He wore no shield or helm, he was dressed in riding gear, cotton breeches and leather boots.

"Stone meets iron, what do you think will happen, squid?" Howland taunted, a wide grin on his face. He slowly ran his hand through his loose hair.

"Stone will shatter, boy!" He spat back. Howland roared with laughter.

"Boy? I'm no boy. I'm black adder, come Greyjoy. Show me your steel," and with that Theon charged, swinging and thrusting.

Howland stepped back and back again, the blade coming within inches of him. He was still smiling, taunting the boy ever forward.

Theon obliged him, renewing his attack. Howland stepped forward and the rolled of off Theon's shield, and struck him with the flat of his blade. The first time he lifted his sword, attack or defence.

Theon stumbled forward. The blow still echoed around the yard, a few spectators started a subdued chuckle. Theon rested on his blade, taking in deep breaths.

"Your iron is corrupted Greyjoy, maybe its like my father says: Stone conquers all."

Theon dropped his sword and shield and charged. His head was bowed forward and his arms wide, waiting to collide with him. Howland stepped away and forcefully slashed his sword to his legs.

The flat of the blade hit Theon's legs forcing him to trip, but Howland moved his blade upward, so Theon did a flip to land in the dirt.

Howland stepped over him and pushed his blade to his throat.

"Yield?"

"Howland! Bed immediately," Yngvi's call echoed around the yard.

Howland looked up at his father, pain and anger shone through his eyes. He looked away and licked his lips. He spat, dropped his sword and walked away.

"He is a good fighter, you should be proud to have him as your son. His technique is a bit...unique, shall we say?" Robb whispered softly.

"You are too polite my lord. He likes the feeling that he is on the edge, that moment between alive and dead. He likes to know he defeated death everytime he fights. His arrogance will kill him, I don't think I could bare it," Yngvi whispered back with a grimace.

"Yngvi, walk with me," Robb commanded.

They walked away from the practise yard, away from the ringing of steel. Each yard making it softer and softer, fainter and fainter. They walked past the main keep and eventually, instead of dirt under their boots, there was leaves and foliage.

Deeper and deeper into the godswoods they delved. Robb stopped in front of the heart tree, he sat carefully on the moss covered rock in front of the face.

Yngvi knelt in front of the face, and quietly prayed to the old gods.

"You know my father, tell me what I have to do?" Robb's voice seemed uncertain, for the first time since Yngvi arrived.

Yngvi sat next to him, they looked into each others eyes.

"You know what to do Robb, you are already doing it," he rested his hand on the young lord's shoulder,"Keep the faith." He smiled slightly, it was forced but it seemed to comfort him.

"How long have you known my father?"

"Well, I marched with him from the start of Robert's rebellion, fought in every battle that he did. I held him at the tower of joy. He hasn't been the same since then," Yngvi grimaced at the memory, till too soon,"I went to Pyke with him, I was sea sick the entire time but I did my part. Everything I have, I owe to him, to your family. I'll follow you."

"You will, but not the other Lords," it wasn't a question.

"The lords are here to answer your father's call, not yours. Show them you are a Stark, then they will fall into line. Roose will be tricky, he always is. He will test your limits, try to manipulate you, play you, over the years he has got better and better at it. Watch him though, first sign of weakness and he will stab you in the back. Then there is the Greatjon. He will just make sure you are a Stark. He will say something about him leading the vanguard, if you let him he won't respect you. With him you need to be commanding and arrogant. Deal with those two and the rest will fall into line."

"Why you telling me all this?" Robb asked him.

Yngvi drew his sword.

"Your father gave me this sword. The day I swore my life to him, he gave me his sword. As long as I wear it, I serve House Stark. That's why I'm helping you," he said.

Robb carefully drew a scroll from his pocket.

"It came for you," he said before leaving him. The tiny scroll rolling in his hand, the wax seal unbroken. The wax had no stamp, only a coin's face. Not a dragon or a stag, this was something much more foreign and more unique.

He opened it and started reading. The sudden realisation dawned on him, it had been years since he had to read the text. He recognised the mark too. It seemed familiar, so familiar.

He had a suspicion of who it was, an old friend, long since thought dead. He walked out of the godswoods as light slowly turned into darkness.

He strolled into the great hall, the tables were cluttered with food and plates and flagons of wine. Men shouted bawdy jokes, filling the hall with noise as well as smoke. His sons sat on a table next to each other, Eddard wearing a white and green doublet, whilst Howland wore a simple white tunic, a small axe still tucked into his belt.

Eddard held a chicken leg in his hand, ripping the meat of the bone, grease on his fingers and chin. Howland carefully cut some bloody steak, and meticulously chewed, watching people in the room.

His eyes focused heavily on a serving girl. They were of an age, the colour was thick on her cheeks and she smiled when their eyes met. Brown hair and eyes, a true northerner.

He knew what one of his sons would be doing tonight.

Eventually he reached the high dais, the Lords of the North eating and jesting with each other. They discussed battle plans, foot movements, where to strike and when.

"Go to Riverrun, Harrenhal and then King's landing, we will have Ned back in no time. Obviously, as Lord Robb is so young, I will be honoured to lead the van," a loud, unfamiliar voice shouted.

"You lead the van. I will not march behind the likes of you. My fathers sigil will march behind the direwolf, and only that," this voice was familiar, and just like his face it was just like his father, the Smalljon really was a spitting image of his father.

A quiet voice spoke up, hardly audible at first, "sure Robb will make the decision for himself," his voice was like ice, cold and unyielding.

The hall had went quieter, the lords straining to hear Roose's voice. He didn't speak up again, but all the lords were focussed on I'm for several seconds. Finally Robb spoke up.

"I will lead the van," it was spoken with complete certainty, yet the inevitable happened.

"Me and mine will march in the van, or we will march home," the Greatjon roared.

"You can do that my lord, but after I've dealt with the Lannisters, I'll find you in your keep and root you out, and hang you for an oathbreaker," Robb answered back. His voice as stern as his face. The Tully had gone in him, the Stark shining through. The hall had gone silent.

"Oathbreaker? Oathbreaker!" He drew the greatsword from his back. A mass of grey and black smashed into him, and a loud grunt echoed through the hall.

The direwolf stalked back to his master, dropping the bloody fingers at his feet. Robb stood up and petted his wolf, stroking him behind his ear.

"My father told me it was death to bare steel in the presence of your liege. Doubtless, you only intended to cut my meat," he said softly, almost as quiet as Roose, but the hall was so quiet everyone heard.

"Your meat?" He waited,"Your meat is bloody tough."

The hall erupted into laughter, as the Greatjon held his bloody hand in the air. Yngvi noticed his sons, Eddard wrestling the axe from Howland's hand. They buried it in the table before Howland stormed out of the hall, grabbing the serving girl as he went.

Only a moment, but he could see the anger on his face. The murder in his eyes, the wildness there. He reminded him so much of his father, the lust for blood in both of their eyes.

The moment didn't belong to his sons though, he knew that, it belonged to Robb. He had his bannermen under his command. He had played them and shown he was a Stark.

He felt proud. He felt happy. He felt comfortable, he was born to do this, to do war.

The letter was still in the back of his mind, gnawing at him. It shouldn't exist. It was a letter from a dead man. He had searched for him, no one had heard from him, or seen him, or even thought he might be alive. He fell off the face of the world.

It was fifteen years, fifteen long years. He had no right to be alive, but he knew if someone could disappear without a trace it was him.

Gorne could do it.


	11. Chapter 11

Another raven dropped, an arrow punctured through it, almost halfway to the feathering. The birds blood, thick on the arrowhead, ran along the wooden shaft; darting this way and that.

Howland and Theon were competing to see who could kill the most ravens, Theon used white arrows, Howland black. Howland didn't loose his arrows often, but when he did they hit the mark. Theon loosed many arrows, all striking true.

Each raven carried a message from Lord Frey, addressed to some lord in the South, they couldn't chance anything though. It could be coded, it could be a warning that they couldn't understand. You must never trust a Frey.

They were considered upstarts by many lords, their House only being established three hundred years before the Targaryens landed. Their wealth and power came from a bridge, spanning across three keeps. There was one keep on the north side of the river, one on the south side of the river, and one in-between. It would be costly to storm, but not impossible.

However, if they laid siege to the Twins, even if they won, Tywin would creep up on them and outnumber them. Then only Moat Cailin stood between him, and the destruction of the North.

"A letter to his sick grandchild. Dear Joselyn, get well soon or bloody well get on with dying, love always, Walder the bastard Frey," Howlands voice mocked. Theon chuckled besides him and even Robb shared a smile.

"Keep shooting them down, I trust Walder Frey not," Catelyn warned. Yngvi's eyes met his sons, his face tried to hide his laughter, laughter at this silly woman.

"Let's go pay the toll then," Yngvi declared.

"Who should go?"

"Your thinking of sending someone in there. He'll sell you to Lord Tywin."

"Burn the bridge to the ground and let's get this over with."

"SILENCE," Robb screamed, and the world did go quiet, not even the wind blew,"Yngvi, please escort my mother to the Twins."

"My Lord, I will go myself. Enough Starks are hostages already," and with that he spurred his horse off, not waiting, nor even wanting a reply.

Lady Stark had arrived a couple of days before with Ser Rodrik and her uncle, Ser Brynden, the Blackfish, at Moat Cailin. The old knight carried on to Winterfell but Lady Stark stayed with the Northern host. All she did was warn; warn them about Lord Tywin, Queen Cercei and "late Walder Frey".

"She acts like she's passing off this grand insight, yet she has just regurgitated what every lord has said. By the seven, we finally understand why Hoster Tully calls him the late Walder Frey. Damn him and his punctuality," Howland mocked every night. Howland did not like the woman, she thought her birth and beauty made her better than most. Yngvi was old enough to realise that is all the power a woman had, that and her cunt.

Yngvi hated her. Hated her with a passion. Ned had often invited him to Winterfell, to talk and wellwish, but more often than not, Yngvi turned the opportunity down. All because of her.

She didn't want Ned, she often called him the shy wolf during the beginning of their marriage. She always mentioned Brandon, a man who didn't want her, a man Ned felt so insecure about. Ned could never walk out of Brandon's shadow, because Catelyn was the one casting it.

Yngvi remembered Winterfell with Jon Snow, with his grey eyes and his little smile warming up the cold keep. Catelyn arrived a few days later, the rage and hatred towards the child wasn't hidden on her face, it was plain for the blind to see. Every time Yngvi visited her checked up on Jon, and every time he noticed Catelyn trying to kill the boy with nothing but her stares. The boy was a Stark, that's all she needed to know.

He still remembered the look in Ashara's eyes, a look of pain and remorse, but also love. Love towards the man who killed her brother. He couldn't help think that Ned should of married the Dornish beauty instead, but she probably couldn't stand the cold.

He left the mess of Northern Sigils and headed towards the blue shield with two keeps. The ground was soft underfoot and the air smelt fresh, he couldn't help think that this would be an awful day to die.

The Freys cannot be trusted, no more than the Lannisters, or even the Boltons.

A small group of Freys approached on horseback, proudly displaying the sigil of their horse over their plate armour. It was scratched and dented and not finely polished but that didn't matter to Yngvi, armour was supposed to get damaged.

"Who goes there? State yourself," a Frey demanded as they stopped.

"Lord Yngvi Magnar of Adder's Nest, coming on the command of Lord Robb Stark, to negotiate terms," Yngvi roared back. His voice startled a few Freys, but the more hardened ones remained still.

"I'm Walder Frey."

"Black Walder, not the Lord Walder."

"There's too many Walders. Every third child is a bloody Walder. The named a girl bloody Walder, what is a girl doing being called Walder, poor lass."

"It wasn't Walder, it was Walda."

"No, it was Walderina."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm bloody sure."

And then the Freys started arguing. Who was called Walder? How many Walders there were? Who was next in line for the Lordship?

"I'm telling you, old Walder will name his next child heir, just to spite us."

"Then he'll spite us as we strike him down to the ground," it went quiet as Black Walder spoke.

"That'll do I suppose. Old bastards lived long enough," one Walder reasoned. Yngvi rode on away from them and their bickering.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"To the only Walder that I give a shit about, good day ser," he roared back. He dug his hells into the horse's ribs, and it galloped off. He never felt comfortable on a horse, constantly shifting in the saddle and gripping the reigns till his knuckles went white.

Still he was adequate, and the horse he rode was extraordinary, easily making up for his lack of skill in the saddle.

He rode into the twins and down the bridge, past the water gate, to the main keep. Ratty faces stalked him everywhere, watching as he dismounted and walked into the keep. The shadows couldn't hide every guards resemblance to Walder Frey, it seemed like he sired an army of sons.

The great hall was a smoggy place, cold and harsh. The smoke was thick in the air because of the giant hearth. The stone tiles were underneath the feet of hundreds of people. Daughters, maidens and widows, all being displayed like cattle at a market. The sons watched over from the balcony, mesmerised by every sound and sight, who was this strange northern lord?

Lord Walder Frey sat on his throne, two steps elevating him above his brood. He wore thick wool clothing and was positioned in front of the hearth, over his lap he kept a wolf pelt.

"Lord Walder, may I have salt and bread?" Yngvi needed to get the formalities out of the way and quick, there was a war on.

"Lothar," Lord Frey called. A man rushed forward, his thin arms carrying a cut of stale bread and a bowl of salt.

Yngvi took a bite, the salt stinging his tongue. The great hall doors swung open.

"Ser Stevron, Ser Perwyn, Walder, Walder, thank you for joining us," the little weasel on his chair said, his eyes squinting with contempt.

"Who are you? You're too old to be Robb Stark, too pretty to be Roose Bolton. Which lord are you?"

"Lord Yngvi father. He fought in Robert's rebellion," Ser Stevron said, Lord Frey glared at him.

"I didn't ask you. You are not Lord Frey yet, not until I die, do I look dead?" The lord replied. Yes, you do, Yngvi thought. His Lord's seat was actually a litter, it had ringed hoops that poles could be placed so the man could be carried. Lord Frey was ninety, sharp of tongue and blunt of manner, his looks were no fairer than his disposition. He had a bald spotted head, with wisps of whit hair flailing about in the breeze, weasel eyes, thin lips that never hid his yellow teeth and was incredible thin, too thin to stand unassisted.

"So is Robb Stark too proud to come before me? Or too craven? I doubt that. I no one fears me, they laugh at me, saying I am too old to marry again. They never batted an eyelid at Jon Arryn marrying that Tully bitch. No, I'm not feared. Save me your sweet words, why am you here? What am I going to do with you?" His eyes glared at him suspiciously.

"This is no way to speak to a guest father," one man from the balcony shouted. Lord Frey turned his head slighty, and narrowed his eyes.

"Now my bastards presume to teach me courtesy. I'll speak any way I like, damn you. I've had three kings to guest in my life, I know how to speak to nobles, this is just an upjumped Lord from the commoners, I don't require courtesy from the likes of you, Ryger." Before the old man could return his gaze back to Yngvi, he snapped.

"I was born Stone. My house is House Magnar. My house has been around since the First men came, we follow the old gods and live under their gaze. We have been around for thousands of years; thousands of years before your ancestor's, ancestor squirted his seed into some whore. No my lord, my house isn't an upstart," he paused for a moment, and looked around. "Get out."

And they did, the little rat's spawn scurried away before the cat could show them his claws. Ned had once told Yngvi he had a lord's voice, so loud his men could hear him over battle, and so commanding all would follow. He proved that here in Walder Frey's own keep. His young wife stayed, a pale frail thing, standing beside his chair.

"Find yourself a chair my lady, we will be talking a while," Yngvi said softly.

"What do you want then?" the pink headed man said.

"To open your gates and let the northern armies pass through."

"Oh, do you? That's blunt. Why should I let you?"

"Twenty thousand northerners are outside, that's why."

"They will be twenty thousand corpses once Tywin gets here. Your not that thick boy," he retorted. Yngvi felt his anger flared. "Don't try to threaten me. The Riverlands are burning, the Vale is ran by a sick boy and a mad woman, the north by someone so green he pisses grass, and your liege is in some traitor's cell under the red keep. What do I have to fear?"

"Well," he paused, looking around in the hall. "My sword. My axe. My fist."

He smiled at the old man, squirming in his chair, his lady wife's cheeks started to colour, a small smile on her lips.

"You are very rude. You welcome me to your hall, parade your bastards, offend me lineage, my liege and my countrymen, I feel well within my rights to take your head and see if the next lord Frey feels more positive about letting us through," he spat at the man. "Ser Stevron, was it? I am giving you a chance, a chance to honour your oaths to your liege lord, a chance to let your sons find glory," he paused. "A chance to make an alliance."

He let that hang in the air. Threats were all well and good, but Yngvi knew he would have to kill four thousand men to let Robb through if he actually followed through with them. Promises however, they could turn the tide of any negotiation. Frey had many daughters, one could be Robb's bride.

"The Tullys and the Starks have never been friends of mine," his voice was crisp, a small smile crossed his face. "Let's correct that."

The rest was only haggling.

He had shaken lord Frey's hand, then exited the hall. A red swollen sun was starting to dip into the earth as he rode back to the bolts of cloth of grey and white. He did not ride alone. Under the banner of the twins rode; Ser Jared, Ser Hosteen Ser Danwell, Ser Perwyn and his bastard Ronel Rivers. Pikemen were being roused from their camps, ready to join with the northern host. A swarm of blue mail and grey cloaks.

Robb galloped to meet him, his direwolf, Grey Wind, charging besides his stallion. Catelyn following closely behind.

"Is it done?" Robb asked tentatively.

"What did he want from us?" Catelyn asked, the urgency in her voice was clear as day.

"More than I was willing to give. However, his swords and spears are yours. All of them, save four hundred to support his garrison, will march with us," Yngvi declared.

Robb licked his lips and raised his eyebrows. "What does he want?"

"Two of his children will be taken as wards to Winterfell, Lady Catelyn he asked that you personally escort them. He highly regards your parental guidance," Yngvi lied. "Two will also be my wards at Adder's Nest. He has asked that Olyvar Frey, one of his grandsons, be your personal squire. He expects a knighthood in time, so keep the blackfish close. He wanted two marriage pacts, but I gave him one."

"Who?"

"He wants you to marry one of his daughters, or granddaughters. He really does have a wide variety," Yngvi said.

"I can't go home Robb, I need to get Ned back," Catelyn whimpered, tears running down her face. Yngvi wanted to get rid of the woman. She was acting selfish and cruel towards her younger sons. Ned would never forgive Yngvi if Catelyn died, he had grown attached to her over the years. The gift of children do that.

"You have to, if we want to cross. Same as I have to marry," he added quietly. "Yngvi, how are his women?" Fear was shining through his eyes.

"Most take after the old git, but there are some diamonds in the dirt...you've just got to dig them out," he replied. Robb smiled and nodded his agreement.

"I'll add four hundred of my own men to his garrison. Don't want the Twins to close anytime soon," he said with a smile. "Howland will take command of it."

"He needs punishment. That business at the war council was unacceptable," Yngvi agreed.

He still remembered it, clear as lake water. They were still at Moat Cailin, still undecided on the upcoming battle.

Robb had called all the lords into his tower, Roose Bolton, Karstarks, Glovers, Umbers, all there to discuss the plan.

A scout was brought in, in front of Robb and all the other lords, Howland tried to gut him. Eddard and Eddard Karstark had to restrain him.

"You kill your enemies," Howland had screamed as Robb banished him from all other meetings.

"My father taught me mercy. And honour and bravery. How far did you count?" Robb had asked the scout.

"Twenty thousand, my lord," he had responded.

Then Robb whispered in his ear, so maliciously it made the scout shudder. "Tell lord Tywin, Winter is coming for him. Twenty thousand northerners marching south to find out if he really does shit gold." And that was the plan.

Feint right, strike left.

The hooves of countless horses, clattered against the cobbled stone of the bridge, then they rode hard to Riverrun, over soft grass. Yngvi and Eddard were proudly riding with Robb to the more dangerous and difficult task. Dealing with the Kingslayer.

Roose took the foot down the king's road to confront Tywin.

Howland was left at the Twins. His eyes following Yngvi. He had never noticed how dark they were before. They were blacker than the nights sky, but a fire burnt deep within them. He couldn't help but notice Howland's small, ever so small, glint in his eye.

He had seen it before. The last time he saw it he had just killed four of Bolton's men, Yngvi couldn't help but feel a small shiver run up his spine. What was he going to do?


	12. Chapter 12

**HOWLAND**

He was cold. Very, very cold. The blood had rushed from him as his time approached. He would meet the leach lord soon, he would be pulled apart like a child's play toy.

No, that will not happen, he urged in his mind. He hardly ever faced self doubt, it was foreign o him. He was no fool, he knew his numbers and knew his tongues. War came easily to him, in practise and theory. His plan was cunning, yet so simple. Roose will have to see that.

He wanted a woman. He needed a woman. He needed to be kept warm tonight, he needed the rough and tumble in the bedsheets. He needed the bites and the scratches and the moans.

Sex is so much like battle, he mused.

Then the image popped into his head. It always did, ever since he saw her. That Mormont girl. Not the old fat hag, the tall goddess. He could imagine picking her up, up against the wall, and thrusting into her. Her black hair cascading down, their sweat mingling and merging. Him biting her chin and kissing her neck. He could imagine his head between her firm thighs.

Oh gods that hurts.

His breeches were too tight for those thoughts. His cock tried to rise, but the leather and the lacing forced it down.

He needed to think of something else apart from...

...Gods, I don't even know her name.

He sharpened his sword methodically, his whetstone grinding away the nicks in the blade. The blade danced between his hands, passing it from one to the other, his calloused hand feeling the soft leather grip. He sheathed it and set about sharpening his axe. It hardly ever needed sharpening, but he always took the time to do it.

He was nervous, the man he was going to talk to hated him, his cold pale eyes, that were normally ice, seemed to burn in a white hot rage with him, just for him. It was rather unnerving.

He needed to keep his hands busy and since the women at the Twins would force him into marriage, he tended to his weapons. He loved his weapons, every man has a gift from the gods. It maybe a voice or beauty, Howland's was blood.

He was an artist with war, the battlefield was his canvas, his paint was blood and his brush were his weapons. So he sharpened them everytime he got a chance. First thing when he woke up, last thing at night.

His weapons were his life. But now he couldn't wield them, his own father's command.

The Twins, piece of shit bridge, who would ever think it honourable or glorious to defend them.

That's why he was outside Roose Bolton's tent, a days march from the Twins. He had ridden his horse here, a fast destier, more nimble than most warhorses but still brave. He could be back at the Twins before breakfast, or he could win glory.

His father had told him about Roose Bolton, in his words he was a cold, calculating man, manipulating people to his own devices. Howland had witnessed first hand his ruthlessness, he had seen his bastard.

A lustful creature, stalking women in the night, then skinning them. Him and his dogsbody constantly avoided Howland's axe. He hunted them like they hunt women, but now they are loose, the north their playground.

He would be called soon, he could feel it. The leeches had been brought in, then removed. Soon he would be in the tent and discussing his plan.

"Boy," Roose called, even his shout was a whisper. Howland entered the tent. A simple thing, a cot in the corner, a leather map on a table and three stools. Almost like milking stools.

He seated himself before Roose could command he do so. He would wait, wait no matter how long it took, for Roose to talk. Moments passed, yet his face was calm as still water.

"What do you want, Black Adder?" He said his name with scorn, for black Adder was more his name than Howland would ever be.

"Glory. Holding the Twins won't bring me that, defeating Tywin Lannister...that'll bring us glory," he answered honestly, his black eyes probing into Roose's ice ones.

"How? And why?"

Straight and to the point, he thought. "A trap. We engage Lannister with our outriders, bring them close in, so close we can see the whites of their eyes. Then we charge," Howland said simply. Yet Roose looked confused.

"That was already the plan. Engage them with our troops. It will not bring victory," Roose responded, disinterested. Howland smiled.

"What's the difference between one thousand horse, and two thousand horse? Unless they are stood besides each other, you cannot tell. We hide the horse away, behind a knoll or a hill, openly show Tywin most of our cavalry, lulling him to a false sense of security. Then when his van advances, we charge. If we take down the mountain we win the day," Howland explained. Once the beast of a man was dead, the lesser men would break apart. And if not then the horse would have cut a bloody path through them, helping the foot considerably.

He remembered what he wrote on the note, "I have a cunning plan," and he couldn't help but smile. The leach lord smiled too.

"An adder you are indeed. You win the praise of your fellow soldiers for killing the Mountain, I et it off Lord Stark for hatching this plan," he said.

"And if it all goes to shit, it was all me," Howland laughed. Roose didn't, but he could see the flicker of a smile wash over his face.

**YNGVI**

He could hear them approaching. The Lannister horse. Shouts of glee rang through the trees, shouts of joy as they rode to their deaths.

They were coming. Through the trees they caught glimpses of Lannister crimson, slowly approaching like a swarm. The yells were getting louder and louder. Soon he could only hear his breath, echoing around his helm.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Pause, just for a moment. Deeper inhale. Slow exhale. He forced his body to comply, his heart pounding in his chest.

For Ned.

They entered the valley. They looked so large. Spots of crimson over the wash of brown and black. He saw him. The Kingslayer.

His crimson cloak, fluttering in the wind. His gilded armour glittered in the sunlight. His head was covered by a lion helm, and in his hand he gripped his golden sword. The sword that cursed him. The sword that killed Aerys. He had thrusted it up into the sky, it stood, unwavering in its defiance. Defiance of the cold, of fatigue, of the wind.

The swarm moved further into the valley, closer to the trap. The lion had ridden into the jaws of death, the mouth of hell.

For Ned.

No mistakes, he knew they could not afford any mistakes. They could not lose. If they did Ned would die, his beautiful little girls would die, Robb would die, his two little sons would die. Even Jon on the wall would die. He had heard the Rains of Castamere before, he had seen the Targaryen babes. If they lost, the North would die.

He felt the soft weight of his armour, chain mail under his valyrian steel cuirass and his vambraces, weighing down on his shoulders. The weight of justice. He wore leather gloves to keep the cold out of his fingers, yet it slowly crept along his spine.

His son was next to his, every limb armoured. His boots had steel plates, chain mail covered his breeches, his torso and head was a mass of plate steel, his house sigil as his surcoat. On the top of his greathelm was a black flume, fluttering in the breeze.

Soon the war horns would sound, thousands of lances would be lowered, and they would charge. They will not stand. Cravens never stand.

He lowered his lance, the steel tip reflecting light. The dull throbbing in his arm subsided, four yards of wood and steel held in his grip.

For Ned, he prayed, over and over until he could feel him, feel him riding with him.

Once more into the breach, climbing over the glorious dead. Take volley after volley of arrow, so thick it would block out the sun. Blood would run once more, covering their bodies and blades, and the screams would fill the air. Screams of victory, screams of death. He still yearned for this; battle was his addiction.

"Winterfell!" The shout went up. It was a mass of shouting. The sounds of hooves filled the air, then a chorus of unintelligible grunts.

For Ned. His horse picked up speed, riding towards the mass of red. Grey Wind charged in front of the horses and as he neared the Lannister group, the horses panic, unhorsing their riders and charging over them.

The northern host hit them like a wave, charging over and through the crimson mass. The lance was torn from Yngvi's iron grip and blood squirted over his armour.

He drew his sword and engaged them again, taking blow after blow on his shield, whilst countering with thrust and slash of his sword. Whilst their strikes faltered, Yngvi's was strong and true. Every strike rewarded him with blood and an agonising weaze.

The screaming was dulled; the calls for "Casterly Rock" and "Winterfell" faded. Only his panting and his grunts filled his ears, the copper taste of blood filled his mouth, and sweat ran down his face unadulterated.

He engaged a knight, his plate armour glinting, his face covered. He thrusted his sword forward, Yngvi knocked it aside with his own before countering with a fierce thrust. Whilst his blade connected with the knight, it only dented his armour and Yngvi almost fell from his horse. He had overreached himself and it would cost him. The knight struck and struck, forcing his blade down onto Yngvi, in his precarious position Yngvi could do little more than block the blows with his sword. A painful ache developed in his arm, intensifying with every strike.

His blade almost came loose several times, the knight's grunting got louder as the force of his blade got more powerful. Yngvi released his shield, unsheathed his axe and countered when the next strike came.

The ringing of steel hit his ears first, then the satisfying sound of axe meeting bone, then the almost orgasmic scream.

The knight dropped his sword as his leg was split in two, only the articulated armour and a bit of skin kept his lower leg from falling to the ground. More and more crimson appeared on his white destier, and finally the knight dropped his shield. His body went limp and he fell forward into the horse.

Yngvi regained his seat in his saddle, and slid his sword easily between the gorget and helm of the knight. There was no gargling sound, no hiss; the knight was gone from this world.

Yngvi tried to sheath his axe, but to his dismay the head had snapped. With a curse he flung the useless handle into the fray and charged once more.

Slashing and striking, cursing and cussing, he charged. The battle was won, the crimson swarm had parted to the grey onslaught. The wolf had the lion caught. Everyone could see that.

The only trouble is the Lannisters don't, Yngvi thought as his blade dragged a mans skull along.

"To me! To me," a voice called in the distance.

He saw Grey Wind eating a mans entrails. His eyes were wide, and mouth open in a wordless screech. His hands gripped the direwolf's head, Yngvi couldn't tell whether the soldier was forcing the wolf away, or closer to kill him quicker. The man's hands fell and his final breath was released. Grey Wind ran off, dragging a long, thin, red cord with him and eventually, the soldier's lifeless corpse.

"To me! To me!"

He saw his Lord, forcing his sword out of one man's chest before sticking it into another man's face. He had lost his helm and his pale face was now tanned with dirt and blood. His sword was pointed to the floor, the blade wobbling; swaying in the breeze. But every opponent that came fell to his blade.

"Robb, take my horse," Yngvi called as he dismounted. He forced Robb into the saddle before picking up a near by spear.

The spear gave him range, range he needed to kill riders without being crushed by the horse.

A loud roar came up, but Yngvi ignored it as he plunged his spear through some mans throat.

"Stark!" A voice called, hatred and anger was all Yngvi could decipher. He turned to see red.

Jaime Lannister, it had to be him. On his glorious horse, with his glorious armour and his bloody sword, slicing his way through.

He had lost his lions helm and his white cloak, but his gold armour dashed with crimson highlights was protecting him. He had lost his shield and his dagger, but his sword did his killing.

"Stark!" He called once more, with a snarling smile and his emerald eyes.

Yngvi threw his spear. He had once hunted with spears and could find ones weight easily enough. The spear pierced the horse's shoulder, throwing Jaime out of his saddle. He hit the ground and tumbled, snapping his golden sword in two.

He slid across the thin layer of blood before coming to a stop. He grunts a little whilst trying to move. He hobbles onto his knees before collapsing again.

Yngvi has already walked over, sword in hand, gods he wanted to strike the smug little head off its shoulders, hold it by its mane and show the world that lions do not roar.

Jaime slowly got up. His Lannister troops were either dead or dying, yet he would not yield. His fists were clenched and in front of his face.

"Give him a sword," Yngvi called. Someone threw a blade to his feet, and the lion of Lannister quickly snatched it up, pointing it at the Northmen.

A small circle formed, watching as Yngvi circled the lion.

"Do you know who I am? My father will have your head?" He shrieked.

"When Tywin gets here, then I'll fear. Until then its just you and me, Kingslayer," Yngvi retorted as a laugh went up from the crowd.

He threw his helm to the floor, allowing his face a refreshing blast of cool wind.

"Yngvi, I do not want him harmed," Robb called down from his horse.

The Kingslayer rushed forward, striking downwards, locking Yngvi's and his blades together.

He then crumpled, his knees collapsed and his sword dropped from his grip. A little bit of blood spilled from his mouth and from a little cut on his chin where Yngvi punched him. A vicious left hook, completely in the lions blindspot.

A roar of laughter went up from the army as they saw, with their own eyes, how easily the lions were tamed.

"Drag him away, he won't wake for a few hours and by then, he'll awake in a Riverrun cell," the Greatjon roared. His boy started cheering, then the Karstark brothers took it up, eventually the noise of battle was forgotten, now only the noise of victory could be heard.

He looked over at Robb. A small smile flickered on his lips, his small beard wrestled with blood and gore, but his eyes shone with pleasure. The day wasn't for the North. The day was his, and it always would be.

"Young wolf! Young wolf!" The faint cry started.

"Young wolf! Young wolf!" Getting louder and louder as more and more men took up the shout. They banged their swords into their shields rhythmically.

"Young wolf! Young wolf! Young wolf!" The valley was alive once more. Robb raised his sword, saluting his brothers. Brothers of battle, of blood. Lannister blood.

I'll keep him safe, I swear to you Ned, he vowed silently.

**EDDARD**

The darkness had finally become his friend. It whispered to him, held him tight in its embrace and showed him the truth.

Not the truth he wanted to see. It was the cold, merciless truth. He had killed Robert. He was responsible for his death.

He didn't rip open the King's skin with his tusk, nor did he give him the wine, funnelling it down his neck.

No, he left the King abandoned in a pit of snakes, he let his King grow fat and ignorant, he let his Queen plot and manipulate the realm. And then he confronted her. He didn't start the reaction, but Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, was it's catalyst.

"Look at us Ned, we won a kingdom together," Robert roared from the darkness. They were sat in front of him, all of them.

Robert was not the fat, bearded oath that he knew, but the young stormlord, battle hardened, muscled body and the threatening hints of a beard. His eyes were as blue as the sea and his grin was welded onto his face.

He was topless, blood slipping from his wounds but he just laughed at them and rubbed his hand through his greasy hair.

"Here Ned, thrusting is the key to sword play. Hard and fast, so it goes deep. Also use your tongue," the darkness jested. He knew that voice though.

Next to him sat Brandon, so similar. His chest and arms were the size of logs with veins protruding out of his biceps and forearms. His hair was darker than night, and his eyes were like iron fresh from the forge. He had that mischievous look in his eye, the one he always had after visiting Winter town. It was a look of lust and anger, with only the hint of shame. His smirk showed some of his white teeth, like a wolf threatening violence.

On his lap sat Ashara, tight in his grip, her hair and his interlocked. She was still so beautiful, even after all these years.

On the other side of Robert sat Yngvi, only fifteen and already as big as Robert. His face wasn't smiling though, a giant scar, horrific to look at, ran down one side of his face. His eyes were black and so was his hair.

"She was worth it," he whispered. They all started changing. Robert's wounds becoming corrupt, with green pus pouring out instead of blood. His veins were black, and wrapped around his skin like a weed, spreading and spreading. Finally, his belly was ripped open, and his insides, a collection of black eels, exploded out onto the floor. All the while he laughed.

Brandon's face turned blue and an invisible hand clutched his throat, making it red raw. His eyes bursted outwards and the flames died in them.

Ashara was torn from his grip and seemed to float away, through the darkness and into the void.

Yngvi stayed. A small smile on his lips, one filled with pain not pleasure, one filled with sorrow not anger, one filled with empathy not pity. Yet he melted away with them.

"Promise me Ned," the darkness whispered. His eyes stung and he wished, he wished so hard, that for once his pain would not freeze in his throat. For his pain choked him, strangled him, every day he lived to the day he died, the pain would be there.

"Lord Stark," the darkness whispered. No, it couldn't be the darkness. The darkness was of people who were gone. This voice is a lion. A lion with claws.

He searched for her, and there she was. Queen regent, enveloped by a black cloak. Her eyes were no longer emeralds, just pools of pus. Her lips no longer cherries, just festering wounds. She was corrupt and diseased.

"Lannister," he did not hide the contempt. He could not summon the strength to do so, his leg burned and so did his blood. Finally he realised what his father meant by wolf blood.

He would happily rip her throat out, or kick her nose so hard the cartilage went into her brain. But he couldn't, his hands and feet were chained. He was a wolf in a kennel.

But a wolf still has his bite and his bark.

Moments passed.

"Are you going to say anything or just going to stand there? I know mutes that are better company," he whispered, his voice dry and cracked.

"Do not mock me or I'"ll-"

"You will what? Lock me in the black cells. Torture me. Kill me," he interrupted."You are powerless. You can't do anything to me that I wouldn't welcome."

He didn't need to act brave, he couldn't be brave for he wasn't afraid. He was a warrior, and warriors die.

"You will be brought before Joffery tomorrow, at the Great sept of Baelor, and you will confess your vile treason," she commanded.

"And why would I do that? I could demand a trial, combat or words, either way I doubt you would keep your head. Enlighten me why I should do as you ask," he responded coldly, his pants of breath becoming louder and louder, echoing in the darkness.

"If you do this, you will sent to the wall with your brother and bastard. Your daughter will marry the king and the north will be ruled by your son. If not...well, have you heard the Rains of Castamere," he couldn't see her face, but he knew she was smiling.

And now the Reynes weep ov'r their hall but not a soul to hear, he thought softly. Then he remembered the last time the lion met a Northmen. A weak, delirious boy had brutally forced him to the ground.

He roared with laughter, he laughed so hard his chains cut into his skin.

"You are not your father and the north is not a lesser house of defenceless children. Your threats are hollow," he whispered.

"I have your daughters," she said. He knew that was a lie, Varys had told him so, she only had Sansa. "I will kill them."

"Unless I confess," he knew this would happen, he just didn't want to believe. But now all hope was gone, reality struck in. He was a father, and weak as such. "Fine, but promise me. Promise me that you will keep her safe."

"Goodbye Stark, I'll see you soon," and with that she left. She had not promised. She had not promised him. Bitch.

The darkness would envelope him again, he knew. He didn't have the strength to fight it, to fight his madness. He had no patience. No company. Only the pain, the madness, and the past.

"You don't believe her, do you? I know that face, you know once you say those words you will have a very close shave, so close in fact your head will fall off. Don't worry, she has no intention of killing you," he knew that voice. "Her son on the other hand...well even the master of whispers hasn't heard his whispers. He is going to give you a merciful death. Ironic as your own blade will be the one to kill you."

He couldn't see him, but he knew his face. It would be scarred with wrinkles, he may or may not be bald, but he would still be the same man. He certainly had the same voice.

"So Ned, old friend, do you want to serve the realm like Varys would command, serve the lions for Cercei," he emerged from the darkness. "Or serve the North, for your blood."

Blood, always his blood.

"Could you get me out of here?" His voice asked. Varys had said no, had rejected him.

"No I think I will just leave you to die," he mocked."Ned, you are my last friend...it will be my pleasure to release you from this cell."

He thought for a moment. He thought about Robert and Robb. Brandon and Arya. He thought about all his children, his wife, and the north.

A lion always pays it's debt, he thought softly, a new anger burning inside him. It is time to pay with blood.

"What's your plan?" He asked. Gorne smiled, his red teeth visible.

"Fire and blood," he whispered.


	13. Chapter 13

**HOWLAND**

The war horns were blowing, louder and louder, closer and closer. The feet were stamping, a loud thunderous march. Arrows whistled through the air, to land hard into shields. It was the chorus of battle.

His horse was crouched low and him with it, waiting to pounce.

Which is greater, the lion who crushes the snake, or the snake that topples the lion?

He didn't have a lance, it was too cumbersome for him, he was leading the charge without a lance. His sword wasn't long so he had grabbed another. It was much longer and broader than his own, which he kept sheathed.

I will lose it in the first charge anyway, hopefully stuck in a Lannister's neck, preferably Tywin's.

He was waiting, waiting for the van guard to push past them. Then they would swarm in from the sides and wash the crimson from the field. It was cunningly simple.

No its not, its just simple. So simple no one will ever think of doing it.

They were outnumbered. Massively outnumbered, yet so was Robb. The entire North couldn't raise men to outnumber the Lannisters.

Gold. All their men were bought, ours want to die with Lannister blood on their tongues.

He licked his lips patiently. He wore little armour, no helm, no gauntlets, no protection for his legs. He wore an old cuirass, riddled with arrow holes and dents, truly a worn torn piece.

He had a sigil though. He made it himself. Not the lobster and snake of his father, but the coiled black adder on a white field. He had a spike on the end so its carrier could still defend himself.

He had once questioned his master at arms about being a sigil carrier, why would you carry it if you can't defend yourself?

"Because boy, its a great honour. Not only that, those colours signify the fact that you cannot be beaten. You are calling the enemy forward, daring them to face you. Daring them to take your colours, and you will rather die than see them taken," ser Eswick had answered. He was a good man, his father always spoke highly of him. He would rather die...well, he would rather die than do anything, I suppose, Howland thought.

He slowly rose, beckoning the other men to stay low. He forced his horse up and mounted it, riding it to the ridge. He must be a sight, a lone man on a black horse, sword piercing the sky.

"Northmen, rise. You are the scum of the North, sent here to die. Not to win glory, but to win defeat," he spat into the ground. "Fuck that. I ride to victory, to glory, to immortality. They will sing my name for all eternally. Do you have the bollocks to ride with me. We ride to blood, their blood. We ride to death, their death. We ride with winter, for it has come for them."

A roar went up. "Northmen," he paused for a moment, his voice echoing through his men, and a small smile on his lips. "RIDE!" He shouted, spurring his horse into a gallop.

He galloped down the hill, screaming a wordless cry. Already his battle lust taking over him. He saw him.

Gregor Clegane, the Mountain. His giant destier was under him, dwarfed by his ungainly size. He wore a great helm covering his face, and steel plate. The black paint was scratched and scarred by its use in battle. His sword, a great sword by most men's standard, was dancing and twirling in the air. Each time it came up blood followed, trailing behind. His three dog sigil near him. Beckoning the Blackadder towards him.

"I do not fear death, I am death," he whispered to himself. Today the snake would topple the mountain he left unsaid.

His sword did its own dance, twisting in the air, then striking down fiercely. The men were not expecting this. Each yard left a void in the hosts formation.

Chaos reigned supreme, shouts and calls going up. Men started panicking as the wave of horses washed over them. Men were skewered by blades and trampled by horses, they all bled and died in the mud. Some ran forwards and died, some ran back and died, others stayed where they were and died. Death ruled the field.

Howland was slick in his saddle, easily adjusting himself to dodge spear thrusts and slashes, steering his horse away from danger. Or into danger. He still was heading to the shadow of the Mountain.

He was so close now he could hear the man grunting and cursing.

"Cunt," he screamed with every strike. He was fearless, charging into pike formations, letting opponents strike him before dealing the death blow. The beast was a mad man. Or the mad man was a beast.

Howland stood, crouched on his horse, his borrowed sword lost in the battle, ready to strike. As he drew near to the beast of a man, he leapt from the saddle onto Gregor, dragging him down with him.

Gregor's foot was caught in his stirrups, and his horse tried to drag him away. The horse failed and Gregor decapitated it with one mighty swing of his sword. Then he turned to face Howland.

I think I made a terrible mistake, Howland thought or said, he wasn't sure which.

Gregor charged. He moved quick, even for men half the size of him and without armour he was quick. His sword was quick. Howland was panting and sweating just dodging the blade.

For every strike Howland made the Mountain had swung three. He never landed one but was very close, Howland forced to parry away his blade.

Gregor lifted his great sword into the air, Howland rolled and stabbed him in the calf, his sword piercing his leg and armour. The Mountain did falter, slapping the man away as if he was a fly. He hit the ground hard.

Dazed and defenceless, all Howland could do was run away from the Mountains vicious swings. Finally, the Mountain got distracted mutilating a Northmen, and Howland picked up a spear. Thrusting it between his cuirass and shoulder plate, Howland was rewarded with a grunt of pain. As Gregor snapped the spears shaft like a tooth pick, Howland drew his axe and with a vicious downward swing...

...It was caught in the Mountain's throat. Whilst choking and gargling blood, the Mountain still had time to kick Howland square in the chest, sending him flying across the ground.

"You fucking bastard," he pulled his axe from Gregor's neck, knocking his great helm off revealing a broken nose and scarred face. "Why don't you lie down and bleed to death!" He screamed, each word sending a ferocious blow to Gregor's neck.

Even with his head hanging by a thin stretch of skin; his eyes darted left and right. With one last swing his head rolled into the mud.

"Pass me his head," Howland called as he mounted his horse. As he brandished his sigil of the Black Adder, every Lannister could see the large and ungainly head mounted on it's spearhead. He stuck his banner into the dirt, received his sword and charged once more.

"Nothing can stop us now!" He roared, Northmen screaming with victory. The Lannister host lost faith and ran. The whole army broke and ran. Howland could see a blood red man with a golden cape try to organise this mass exodus to no avail.

Howland had to organise the Northern host, the mob of men hungry for more lion blood so this became a tideous task.

Soon every man took up the call. "Black Adder!"

"Roose, a great victory today," Howland called.

Roose's eyes, pale like ice looked him up and down, probing and analysing him.

"The day is yours Blackadder. The men have decided," Roose said casually, before riding off.

"You there, boy," Howland called to a young man looting a corpse. "Round up the riders, I have a cunning plan."

**YNGVI**

Clouds were in the sky, light blue obstructing the purple sky behind it, like a cloak with diamonds scattered across it. The moon was one giant pearl, emitting light down onto Riverrun. It danced off the water, glimmering like a golden gown of lace.

The water surrounded the castle, breaking against the wall, moss climbing from the water. Heads popped up over the barricades, searching for targets. The moat wasn't circular, but rather triangular, a convergence of two rivers protected the castle. The Kingslayer had positioned his host on all three sides, blocking any escape route for the besieged host yet leaving themselves very vulnerable.

It was a necessity. An error, but an error that every commander was forced to commit. That fact would not save them now.

They charged. The hooves of thousands of horses, like a symphony, summoned the coming of battle. No speech was needed, this was the time for action, not words.

Robb led from the west, with the Greatjon and the Blackfish. Yngvi from the north.

Eddard hit the camp first, his giant sword tearing through men, cleaving off limbs as easily as carving a cake. His blade ripped one man from shoulder to navel, and he watched as he tried to stop the bleeding, crying a wordless shriek of pain.

Yngvi had his own kills. Simple yet effective. Downward thrusts into his victim's necks, plunging deeper and deeper until it reached the lungs. Or a quick blade across their throats, their lifeblood pooling around their feet.

Torches were lit and thrown onto the tents, fires burnt men alive. Archers fired into the sky, their volleys landing in men's bodies on the other side of the river.

Men were trying to row across, trying to swim. Those in armour were thrown into the water by rocks, flung from Riverrun, the steel of their armour dragging them to the bottom. The boats were pushed downstream from the fast moving currents. Riders were on both sides of the river and the garrison of Riverrun had emerged. The Lannister host tried to form a shield wall, but were cut down by arrow fire, rocks and the falling siege tower the Greatjon Umber set aflame.

Men tried to retreat to the south, running through the pikes and wooden spikes. Yet they were slaughtered as they ran into Brynden Tullys van.

The Lannisters on the southern bank retreated in quite good order. Two thousand men, give or take. Their spears silhouetted in the darkness.

The day was won, Robb's once more. Then they heard the clash of steel once more. The cries of death and defeat. Hooves thundered across the ground, coming from the south.

"Lannisters, prepare for battle," the SmallJon roared.

"No, not Lannisters. Northmen. That sigil, a black snake wrapped around a dagger. And what is the enormous sphere at the top?" Eddard questioned.

"Black Adder," Yngvi whispered. The fool, the foolish boy. The bastard son of a whore. He has left the Twins unguarded, the foolish boy.

He was black, blacker than night. A liquid covered his face and armour, dripping to the ground. An arrow was embedded in his cuirass, but it seemed he did not care.

Blood seems black at night.

"My Lord Stark," he announced as he approached them. "I bring many gifts."

"What are they?" Robb spoke impatiently, his anger evident.

"Ser Gregor...well his head anyway. I took it just for you," he said forcing his standard into the ground. "I also bring victory and glory to our cause. Roose Bolton cut the lions tail. Tywin Lannister is heading for Harrenhal. Finally, I bring you the Imp."

With that a man dropped a large sack with a head poking out of it.

"You bastard sons of whores. My brother will kill you, that's before my father kills your whore mother and burns her brothel to the ground," the head calmly spoke, a small smile on his lips. His green and black eyes shining with a fierce menace.

"Take them to the cells...the Imp and Howland," Yngvi said, scorn in his eyes. Why Howland, why?

His son dismounted his horse and threw his sword belt to his brother. Disbelief was in his eyes, a small smile on his lips as always. He marched off into Riverrun, guards escorting him and the little dwarf.

"Harrion," Rickard Karstark said, his voice uncertain.

"Father," a man on horseback said.

"Why you men here? Who defends the Twins?" Robb asked.

"The four hundred men you garrisoned their, under the command of Athur Snow. A good man and true. Roose Bolton is on the Kingsroad with the foot, regrouping and advancing down to meet Tywin. And we are here because the Blackadder told us to come. We are here because we are Blackadder's men," Harrion said, a large roar went up from the men behind him.

"Why are you his men?" Yngvi asked. Damn the boy.

"He charged into battle with no armour on. He joined us when we were sent to certain death. He was the first into the breach, killing left and right," he paused. "He brought us glory, he brought us blood, and he brought us death. He killed the Mountain with nothing but his axe, scattering the lions. We are his, as he is our brother by blood. Lannister Blood." He stated it as if it was obvious. Mumbles of agreement went up from the group.

He was their leader, their brother when all brothers failed. This was his band of brothers.

"How many are you?" Yngvi asked.

"Well, we had two thousand up near the Twins. Then we lost a lot of them. Riding down a few horses gave out. We lost more charging the Lannisters but then we gained a few by those sellswords that were willing to fight for Blackadder. All in all, we've got about six hundred horse and five and sixty scattered on the Kingsroad," Harrion said, scratching his growing beard.

"We will discuss what we shall do with you all later tonight," Robb stated before leaving. Men around him followed.

**HOWLAND**

He gave Eddard everything. His sword and axe were more important than his life blood. He couldn't understand how he did it.

He surrendered up his armour meekly enough, not caring what happened to it. The goaler stole his fur lined boots and cloak and gave his fist to Howland in return. If he didn't have his shackles on he would of killed the man. Not for stealing, or even the punch. No, for wounding his pride.

He had his black breeches on and nothing else. They even took his lace that he used to tie his hair back. His greasy hair matted itself to his face by a mixture of blood and sweat. They threw him harshly into a cold, dark cell. His body hit the floor quite hard and he could taste blood in his mouth.

He slowly sat up against the wall, moonlight showing him his surroundings. Several men sat in the cell with him. A golden haired man in rough spun rags. A dwarf in motley and a beady eyed rat cowering in a corner.

"Boy, tell us off the battle," the Kingslayer spoke.

I'm no boy you fool. "What do you want to know," he replied curtly, subduing his northern accent.

"Did we win? Is my father coming? Will they ransom us or just kill us? Tell us anything," the imp responded.

"Your father was sent away with his tail between his legs. The North rule from the Twins to Riverrun. And the northmen have no desire for gold, only iron and blood," his voice now a whisper.

"Why iron? Gold is much more valuable, are these northmen fools," the Frey in the corner said, his voice getting higher and more frantic with every word. The Kingslayer laughed at his foolishness.

"It means they want revenge, Cleos. Are you touched or just a fool?" Tyrion questioned. "This Blackadder is an example of a Northmen's thirst. I saw him cut down the Mountain, brandish his head on a spear before charging once more. Yet when he gets back to his father, he throws him in a cell." Tyrion laughed, and Howland was glad his hair covered his face. His black eyes burned with rage and he knew his face was snarling.

"Wait, Ser Gregor is dead?"

"Ser Amory Lorch too. Their was a lot of others, though I can't recall their names," Tyrion said with a shy smile.

"I heard they captured you whilst fighting," Howland said. His head was stuck in a horse's side and his arms flailed around wildly when they found him, one man picked him up and dropped him on his head.

"Oh yes that was a bit foolish. No matter, we can't all be as handsome and brave as me," he said with a grin. "Can we Jaime?"

"No little brother. I'm taller, you are more handsome and much, much braver. You are the lion whilst I am the cub," he said flatly, a smile on his lips. Tyrion forced his way closer to his brother, his oversized head resting on Jaime's arm.

Tyrion fell asleep pretty soon after, then Jaime. The Frey whimpered in the corner, his shakes and sobs too loud for Howland to sleep through, yet in the end he did. His arms were weak and tired, his eyes struggled to keep focus and he fell into sleeps soft embrace.

He always dreamed the same dream. Fire burned around him as he walked naked into the darkness. The fire melted his flesh yet he kept walking, refusing to yield. Then he would pick at a pile of grey ash, his tears evaporating before they could fall. Slowly and surely his body set afire, his skin turned to ash and only his skeleton remained. Then the cold would come, the winds rising and the snow falling. A thousand years would roll by, yet his skeleton would remain kneeling, long since he had died. And then his tears would finally fall.

A sharp kick hit his ribs, forcing him from his deep sleep. The moon in the sky had gone, replaced by a bright burning sun. He rubbed his face and felt the stubble, beginning to grow into a beard, run through his rough fingers. His throat and mouth were dry, his lips parched, and when he tried to mumble for water his voice was quiet and cracked.

His body ached. The stone floor that had given him a deep, uninterrupted sleep had also left his back bruised and muscles sore. He felt every knot and every strain. His thighs hurt too and he could feel the hot pulse of blisters on them.

His adrenaline that had sustained him for so long was gone, now only pain remained.

"Get up," a strangely feminine voice commanded.

"You have to carry me. Please, be my knight in shiny armour," he mocked back. He curled back into a ball, waiting for sleep to take him.

"Eddard Stark has been executed," the voice said.

Gods no. What about father? How is he? Lannister bastards?

The world went silent to him, all noises of the castle and the courtyard were gone. Only his thoughts remained.

I will kill them all. Every man will die until Casterly rock burns. Lannister shits.

He never thought he cared so much about Lord Stark, the man was an enigma to strangers, his cold grey eyes were impenetrable. Yet his father spoke so highly of the man, claiming his superiority over other men. He had honour, integrity, and he did his own beheadings. He never realised before that the North wasn't a land, nor a people. It was a Stark.

And the Lannisters have killed one.

"Lannister bastards," Howland swore aloud. He could hear the Kingslayer laughing.

"You're a northmen," he roared in disbelief. He kept calm, waiting. The Mormont girl unlocked his chains, and with that he shot up and kicked the Lannister shit in his face. Bone crunched and blood exploded from his nose.

"That's better. Much better," Howland whispered as he walked out.

"Did that make you feel better, Blackadder?" Her voice mocked. "Has the big boy had his fun."

He turned towards her, he could feel the fire in his eyes, the rage deep inside him.

"Do not call me boy, she-bear. I am a man by all customs. I took my first kill at two and ten, I took my first maiden at four and ten, and I'm fighting my first war at five and ten," he paused. "Whatever was left of the man died today, only a beast remains. Lead on."

"I thought you are the smaller brother," she said after moments of silence.

"I am. My brother stands a giant besides me, but that doesn't mean I'm small," he said. It was true. Whilst Dacey was tall for even a man, Howland stood a few fingers above her. Whilst his body wasn't as stacked with muscle, it was still toned, and he would never be man handled. "I see you are the pretty one."

She had black hair and dark eyes. The heir of Bear island was far from resembling a bear like her sisters did, yet there something animalistic about her.

"Maybe I am. I see you are the arrogant one. Is it true you don't block blows," she said, her fingers resting on her mace.

"Arrogant? No. I know my abilities intimately, and defend myself as such. I block when people force me too," he said with a smirk on his face.

He kissed her. She resisted at first, her fists hitting his chest, and her muffled cries. But soon their tongues merged together. When they broke off she slapped him before walking away.

**YNGVI**

They were all here in the godswood, each and every lord from the North and the Riverlands. They crowded around the hearttree, all speaking their minds on the war. Robb sat on an old tree stump, sword and whetstone in hand, his hands carefully sharpening his blade. His face was stern and cold, his eyes focused on his blade yet seemed so distant. He seemed so much like Ned.

Gods Ned, I won't fail your son.

"Renly has crowned himself at Storm's End and taken a Tyrell bitch to wife. He was the Storm Lords and the Reach backing him, we should bend the knee and accept his claim."

"Renly is not King," Robb said, not looking up from his sword.

"My Lord, you can't mean to hold to Joffery," a Riverlord said. "He murdered your father."

"That makes him evil, I doubt it makes Renly King. If Joffery dies, and I vow he will, he has a brother. Lannister cur that he is, Tommen is a Prince," he looked up from his sword, his eyes filled with exhaustion. "Besides, Renly is Robert's younger brother. Bran can't inherit Winterfell before me, Renly can't rule before Stannis."

"Then we declare for Stannis then," a Glover said enthusiastically.

"I don't know," Robb said with a sigh. "He has the right."

Greatjon stood up, a great mass of plate and fur.

"Do you know what I think of these two Kings," he spat to the ground, and laughter and cheers of approval filled the air. "What do these Southern Lords know of the Wolfswood or the wall? Why should they rule over me and mine from a seat in the South? Even their gods are wrong." More cheers erupted and even Yngvi smiled.

"Why shouldn't we rule ourselves again. It was the dragons Torrhen knelt to, and the dragons are all dead," he paused and drew his greatsword, pointing it at Robb. "There sits the only king I mean to bend my knee to."

"The King in the North," he roared. After a moment Robb stood, his shoulders wide and his head high.

"Aye I'll have peace on those terms, they can keep their Iron chair, and their red castle too. King in the North," the Rickard Karstark roared.

"The King of Winter," Howland roared kneeling. Eddard knelt next to him, and most of the young heirs. The Mormont girls knelt next, offering up their maces.

"Am I your brother, now and always?" Theon pleaded.

"Now and always," Robb answered.

"My sword is yours in victory and defeat, from this breath till my last," he said offering up his sword.

He couldn't hold himself any longer, "The King in the North."

Others took up the shout, Brackens and Blackwoods, Boltons and Freys. Riverlords who never knelt to the ancient monarchy now screaming at the top of their lungs:

"KING IN THE NORTH!"

A/N: So what do you think? Sorry for the lateness of this piece, I've been in college all week. From now on I'll probably only post a chapter each week, so I'll try and make it a good one.


	14. Chapter 14

**YNGVI**

The great hall was cold and quiet. The hearth burnt off the last embers of wood, the wenches wiped the floors with salt and damp rags, frantically scraping at soot and grease.

Robb was sat eating, at a table seating his most loyal bannermen. The Greatjon was sat to Robb's left with his son, the Smalljon, and Eddard flanking him. On Robb's right was Theon and Howland. Opposite him was Rickard Karstark and his heir, there was also a space for Yngvi so he sat. Ser Edmure was not present, his incompetence had cost them men and time. Already Yngvi had heard that the young Lord Darry had been captured at his keep by a band of sellswords, calling themselves the Brave companions. Everyone else called them the bloody mummers, their goat maimed more than he killed, taking feet seemed to be the man's fetish.

Howland proudly displayed a greatsword to Theon. A simple thing; pommel, crossguard, and blade. It was just very large.

"Can you even lift it?" Theon japed.

"Yes, but not very high. Strange to think that the Mountain wielded this one handed," Howland retorted his voice thick with sarcasm.

"Your grace," Yngvi almost shouted. "You asked for me."

Robb looked up from his meal. It was toast and bacon, the toast was grilled in the bacon's juices and the bacon was black. His blue eyes fixed with Yngvi's. They had aged since Winterfell, lost the innocence of youth.

"I did, Lord Yngvi," he said, quickly finishing off his meal. "We need to discuss the war. We need to talk about alliances, tactics. When and where we strike, how we strike. It is of paramount importance."

The table had on quiet. They all nodded in agreement.

"Out," the Blackfish's voice rang through the hall, as he emerged from the shadows. The serving wenches scurried away, like frightened mice. His footsteps echoed off the stone, getting louder with each step, as he approached the dais. He sat next to Yngvi so the group was a huddled mass.

"What I say does not leave this room," Robb said his voice a soft whisper. "The Lannisters have been lying to us about a great many things. They do not have Arya. Where she has gone, no one can say. But, the fact is; the Lannisters do not have her." Tears threatened his blue eyes for a moment. It was just a moment, but it might as well have been an eternity.

"The war, whilst we have won battles, is not going in our favour. Both Stannis and Renly have crowned themselves, yet both do nothing. Stannis sits on Dragonstone with a fleet, Renly marches from one bannerman's keep to another - killing any Lions he sees. Neither seek direct confrontation in the field with the Lannisters. This means we are outnumbered," a small laugh erupted on the table. When were we not outnumbered? "Tywin sits in Harrenhal, waiting, ready to pounce. There, he is in a defendable keep, close to us if he must needs attack. Yet close to the capital if either Baratheon strikes. In the west, Jaime's host has regrouped. A small host we will soon crush, yet a host none the less," Theon then interrupted.

"What is their strength?"

Robb scratched his beard. "Only about two thousand, all foot. I think some Lordling rallied them together. That's not the biggest news though, another host has been raised at Oxcross. Its led by Stafford Lannister and is around ten thousand strong. They are in a highly defendable position, commanding views over the entire approach. There's no way to flank them or get behind them. Unless we march down the Gold road." A small smile flickered on his face.

"Do you think the two hosts will merge?" Howland probed, his face was stern.

"Most likely, but then again, it all depends on the Lord leading it," the Blackfish replied before taking a drink of mulled wine. "Incompetence is rife in Westerlands. For all the genius of setting camp in a defendable position, the little Lannister doesn't send out riders. He is blind to the world around him."

"We can't meet Tywin in the field, he would never allow that. We can't march on Harrenhal. And we need to march, we got to march, we have already lost enough men by Edmure we can't lose more by desertion. So that means we march on the west," Yngvi summarised. The Lords nodded in agreement.

"So we march on the smaller host then attack the larger one," the Smalljon stated.

"No then we march on Casterly rock. That's decades of Tywin's shit, and we all know Tywin shit gold," the Greatjon roared.

"Yes let's march on the Rock. Whilst we mount a lengthy bloody siege, the Lannisters can fuck us in the arse," Howland retorted, his stare never leaving the Greatjon. "I hope you fight better than you scheme."

"I don't plot and I certainly don't plot. I'm no snake in the grass, boy," the Greatjon held Howland's gaze. Howland smiled slightly.

"Schemes and plots are the same thing. And I would watch the snake in the grass," he paused a moment. "Especially when that snake has toppled a mountain."

"Howland you will take your horse and regroup with Roose Bolton. You will defend the Riverlands and plot to cull a lion. That should get some Riverlords back in the fight," Yngvi commanded. "The rest of us will march on the West, if Howland and Roose make enough noise Tywin won't realise we have moved."

"We need ships to assault King's landing," Theon said. "My father has ships."

"Stannis also has ships. A fleet larger than the Iron one," Yngvi countered. He did not like where this was heading, they all knew the Greyjoy's ambition.

"Do you not trust me, my Lord?" Theon questioned, his smirk whipped clean from his face.

"I trust you with my life. Not my son's though, and certainly not my King's," the Greatjon nodded his agreement. Yngvi turned to face Robb. "I would not trust Balon with my privy pot, you shouldn't either. The last time he reached for a crown he lost two sons, this time he could see losing one as a bargain. If you give him Theon, even if Theon stays true, you have given him his son back. We lose our leverage and the North."

"Why the North? Why not the south, the lions fought to dethrone him, why should he attack us?" Robb asked. Yngvi smiled.

"The North took his sons. It was Ned who made him bend the knee, Ned who took his final son. He will want vengeance," he paused a moment, then with a quieter voice. "The North is also undefended. The men have marched south, below the Neck. If he takes Moat Cailin we will never see the North again. I suggest raising a new host in the North, garrison it at Winterfell. Also, send word to men at Moat Cailin to build defences at the Northern and Western edges of the keep."

"We would need a man to lead this new host," the Smalljon stated, running his hand through his beard.

"Ser Rodrik?" Robb asked.

"No, he is a Castallen of Winterfell," Eddard said.

"Roose Bolton," Howland said. Yngvi smiled.

"So you can take command of his host? Don't take us for fools, boy," Yngvi retorted. "No. I would suggest Whoresbane, or Mors. Those two would do nicely. I have fought with them both. Good men, should command well."

The men all nodded, except Theon and Howland who scowled.

"That's agreed then. I still believe we send Theon to Balon. I trust him, he is a brother to me. He would never betray me," Robb said, whether he was indirectly talking to Theon or reassuring himself, Yngvi couldn't tell. "We also need men to talk to the Baratheons. Renly has a larger army than us, Stannis a larger fleet. I need allies."

"Renly shouldn't be too hard. A bit of feasting, a bit of arse kissing and he will give us generous terms. Probably let you keep the King in the North status," Yngvi rubbed his chin, a small beard was growing, more silver than black. "Stannis, however, will name you an usurper and traitor besides. You will never win with him. Robert was steel, Renly is copper...Stannis is iron, he will break before he bends."

"Then we shall break him. He is a cold man, his link to his men is thin and strained, we can topple him if must needs," Howland said, straightening up his black silk tunic.

"We offer peace to every man, except the Lannisters," Robb commanded. "Yngvi, you shall treat with Renly, Theon with his father."

"Your grace, I must object," Robb interrupted him.

"To what, me sending you or Theon?"

"Both, my king."

"Would you rather me send Howland and the Greatjon?" Robb japed. They all laughed, even Howland. The Greatjon would rip Balon apart, whilst Howland would kill Stannis, marry Renly and rule in his name. Or just kill them both.

"I will go my king, on your command and head," he said before walking away. His feet now echoed through the hall, bouncing off the walls, as he made his way out.

It was a brisk morning, the wind cold and sharp. In the north it would be snowing now, a little kiss to remind them that Winter is coming, but in the Riverlands there wasn't even hail.

He made the long walk back to his room, a series of sharp corners and winding steps. When he entered his room there was no warmth. It was filled with shadows and colours of grey. His cot was a plank of wood stuffed with straw, his hearth was a lit torch, but that didn't matter. Not today. Today he was at war, and with a roof over his head that was more than he could expect. He drew his sword, and slowly polished the blade. The oil soaked into the metal, protecting it from the elements.

The sword was his life. When it was in his hands he had no wife, no children, just the blade. He would not let the blade age and wither like he had, when the blade was in his hands he was the same man he was at ten and five, he was as young as the blade would allow.

The task soon became larger and larger. He started with the blade, sharpening it with his whetstone, then he unwrapped the leather wrap on the handle, revealing a thin layer of rust. It spotted the metal. He scratched it off with his knife before applying some oil, then reapplying the leather. He then decided the leather was too dry, so he cut apart a leather jerkin and replaced it.

By the time he was done, several hours has past, the sun was falling to the earth. Streaks of red and orange were in the sky.

Yngvi was tired, but his weapon was fully maintained so the effort was vindicated. He still had his axe. It had a brouder head than Howland's had but he knew Howland could wield it. It would be a nice present to him.

Maybe bridge a gap between the two. At least it was a start.

He walked down the corridor, his footsteps echoing down the hall. He past Eddard's room and finally reached Howland's. He pushed on the old wooden door and walked in.

There were no grunts or moans of pleasure, but the scene was unmistakable.

Howland's hands were all over her body, one pressing down firmly on her breast, the other to her sex. By the positioning of her legs and his hips he knew his own sex was there. His hips pulled back slightly then thrusted forward, over and over.

She was biting into his neck, her moans muffled by his flesh. Her hands gripped his buttox tightly, forcing him to go faster and faster. On his back, a thin red liquid ran over thick white scars, criss-crossing his back.

"Blacky, oh Blacky," she moaned, her eyes shut to the world. Their sweat merged and mingled together.

He pulled out of her, dragged her to the edge of the cot, and whilst on his knees licked at her sex. She ran her fingers through his black hair and bit her lower lip between moans. Her ribs were sporting an ugly, yellow bruise, and her face had a slight cut just above her left eye.

"Howland!" He roared. The girl's eyes shot open, she forced her legs together crushing Howland between her thighs. She groped for a sheet to cover herself with but could find none. Yngvi offered her clothes, a simple white tunic.

Howland was reeling on the floor. He slowly crawled to his clothes and uncerismonally covered his sex.

"Father," he responded calmly with a slight smile. Whilst the woman's cheeks were now red with colour, Howland seemed unphased.

"I brought you my axe. I thought you were ready, that you had finally become a man. A man of honour and dignity," he said. "Yet here I find you with a whore, hours before you leave for battle. You are not ready for the axe, you are not ready for war."

"Father, she is Dacey Mormont. A very large difference to a whore, don't you think?" He mocked.

"You are not a boy anymore, Howland. You have been acting like a southern lord, growing fat on your own self image. You killed one man, it does not make you Aegon, fucking Targaryen," with that he threw the axe between Howland's legs, the blade within inches of his manhood. "Stop thinking war is a game. These are men's lives you are responsible for, they die on the commands you give. Consider that when you answer, why are you fucking whores when you could be planning for battle?"

And with that he left, marching out into the godswood. He knelt in front of the hearttree.

Protect my sons. Protect them from evil, the evil in men, and evil men. Protect Howland from his own stupidity and recklessness. Give him the level head you denied him at birth.

He stayed until dawn, praying, meditating it did not matter. His peace was in his solitude, there he could escape the labyrinth of suffering.

To bad my suffering is my son, Yngvi thought as the new day broke over the land.

He mounted his horse in the courtyard. He saw Howland on his, his face full of sorrow, devoid of any other emotion. A greatsword slung across his back, the axe on his side, digging his heels into his horse, he galloped off with his column of riders.

Eddard was mounted near Robb, a bastard sword at his side and a lance in his hand. Trotting over Yngvi nodded to Grey Wind then addressed his King.

"Keep safe your grace. Win glory, and make the North proud of its Young Wolf," Robb nodded a thank you. "Eddard, keep him safe and yourself."

And with that he galloped off. Further south, heading to the Kings; the King at Highgarden and the King at Dragonstone.

**HOWLAND**

"Well, that was unexpected," Dacey said, her voice as warm as summer, as enticing as a winter kiss. Her warm body was pressed against his, her callused fingers softly curling his chest hair. Her lips caressed his neck, her tongue darting in and out of her mouth. She slowly ran her teeth up his neck and onto his chin, a quick bite before she carried on. Her lips were soft and full, she kissed his bottom lip then opened her mouth, their tongues dancing together.

She broke off and rested her head on his chest. Her head rising and falling with his breaths.

He runs his fingers through her black hair, not caring that it is greasy and thick. Its her's, so its perfect.

He wraps his toes around hers, their feet wrestling for control under the fur. A small giggle escapes her lips and her face is full of joy.

I won't tell her, not now.

"So how do you fight with that mace?" He asks. Shit, I sound so patronising. She grins, her white teeth large across her face, her eyes filled with excitement.

"I hit them hard. Across the arm, the head," her voice was seductive. God when did death become so erotic. "Doesn't matter, whatever I hit breaks. Bones snap. Flesh torn. Armour crushed."

"Gods I want to fuck you," he blurts out, before pressing his lips against her forehead. He could taste the sweat, the salt on her skin, but he did not care.

"Then do, my lord Blackadder," she whispered, slowly kissing his chest. Her hand groped his cock, the chill of it sending shivers through his body.

"Would that I could, but I gave you my seed, all of it. Your field has been truly plowed, my sweet bear," he whispered into her ears, his manhood growing in her palm.

"I am ashamed. The Smalljon lasted several hours more, my maiden fair," she mocked. He sighed, long and deep.

Dawn was creeping into the world once more, the sun rising from the darkness. The light crept into the room, large shadows dancing across the wall. A new day dawned and the truth could not be withheld no longer.

"Dacey," she still nibbled his chest, teeth causing orgasmic pain. "I ride to Roose Bolton..." She stopped biting, his skin still between her teeth. "...in the east." She bit down hard drawing blood.

She pulled away, her heat leaving with her. She took the furs, draping it across her shoulders, she turned her back to him. Her pale thin, yet strong legs were all of her soft skin he could see. Her muscles twitched as she hopped from one foot to the next, pulling on her breeches.

She turned to face him. Her breasts were hidden by her black hair and the fur, but he could still outline them. Their round perky shape. His manhood rose, unobstructed into the air, betraying his thoughts. A small smile danced across her lips, the white of her teeth showing.

She pulled on her undershirt, then her mail and boiled leather, she picked up her boots and with one final goodbye, she left. Left him alone.

He did not chase her, although he wanted to. He did not cry, for he could not. He stayed in bed; naked as his nameday, isolated in his labyrinth of solitude.

But war he knew. He felt himself in battle.

When every second is life or death, the tedious hours spent before seem insignificant and wasted, he thought.

He wanted to smile, to smirk, to show his glorious grin. But the dead cannot smile, and without battle and without her, he was dead. Everything paled to insignificance, what once seemed of such importance now was an ant to be crushed underfoot. He did not spare it a moments thought, he could not.

He thought only of his craving, hoping to sustain him to the next battle. He would never see her again, he knew that. He had lost her. Not intentionally, or with malichousness. He had lost her, as he always would; he chose war over her.

She knew that as he did. That's why they did not cry, or plead not to part. It was why he did not chase her. He chose blood and death, over warmth and her.

He chose this smoggy room, his solitude of misery, over her. A labyrinth of death over her.

So he waited. Waited for the call to arms, the sound of battle, the blood on his skin once more. He waited and he knew he had chosen wrong. But the die had been cast, the choice made.

"The path that will slowly kill me," he whispered, but not a soul heard him. Not even his own.


	15. Chapter 15

**HOWLAND**

Weeks had passed since he last saw Dacey. The scars and curves of her body were still engraved in his mind. He couldn't stop thinking about her.

The war carried on, however, slowly grinding away at the Lannister host. Roose had marched the foot down the Kingsroad, waiting to strike the foe at Harrenhal. It was so close now, the time. The time to strike came very slowly, but it came none the less.

Robb had won a great victory at Oxcross. He smashed the Lannister host there, putting the men to the sword...well lance. Rickard Karstark killed the Lannister commander, Tywin's second cousin's grandson, plunging his lance through the man's chest. It would of been a great victory, but too many escaped, the man's son had already regrouped the host, defending the Rock from the Northern host.

Once Tywin dies the war is ours.

He wanted to smile, to shout with glee, yet he couldn't. All his efforts so far were forced and consuming. He was not meant to smile anymore, death does not smile.

He would take Harrenhal, the dead would smile for him, the living would jump with glee. And that would be the end of it.

He slowly scrubbed at his chainmail, his new cuirass had already been polished to a shine, yet his chainmail was thick with sweat and blood. It would soon rust. He hated the armour, he couldn't move fast enough, it wasn't as dangerous. It wasn't as fun.

But he didn't have to move fast on a horse, it would protect him from blows he could not see, and if he died his men would lose heart. Trying to be humble, he had decided he was a leader in his own army. Robb was the Young Wolf and Howland was the Blackadder. Two men on the warpath.

The tents air was filled with his own musk, thick in the air it commanded attention. He hadn't bathed since leaving Riverrun. A nice warm bath shared with Dacey.

Then I went and got myself quite sweaty, he thought, a small smile flashed across his lips before he realised it was there.

His sword was sharp, his armour polished, once again he was the Blackadder. Once again, he was invincible.

They would attack tomorrow, take Harrenhal by storm, kill Tywin in his bed, then send his and the Mountain's heads off to Dorne. It was over in the corner, a rough sack, the material course and harsh. His head had begun to rot, the smell that came off of it was horrific, much worse than battle stench. The maggots had not got to it yet, but it was only a matter of time. They would find it, grow, feed from it, then emerge flying aimlessly around his tent, tormenting him. The Mountain's final revenge.

"Lord Blackadder," a soft voice called out. It was filled with fear, yet excitement and anticipation. A small boy came into the tent, his face covered in green spots, one slowly leaked green and yellow pus. The sight almost made Howland gag. Howland couldn't judge the boy, his shoulders had now sprouted this wave of green. He trimmed the green though with his dagger, the pus would merge with the blood and roll off down his arm, yet that was all he could do until he took Harrenhal. Once he took Harrenhal he could have a bath.

Bloody Harrenhal, everything leads back to Harrenhal, he thought.

They would take Harrenhal. They had liberated the Riverlands, conquered the Brotherhood, they could take a undermanned castle.

Half the sentries on the wall were made of straw, slowly absorbing their arrows, replenishing Lannister stores. We fed the enemy arrows.

The bloody mummers rode out each day, one village to the next, searching for wolves or wolf lovers. They tortured women and children, and for seven days, Howland would ride in too late to save anyone. He failed seven times.

On the eighth day, Howland did not ride to the rescue of a village, he let them be tortured, he let them die. The screams echoed through the trees, each one a cry for help, each one more desperate than the last. But Howland didn't move, his men didn't move. They heard the cries and did nothing.

Then they heard the hooves, so triumphant in their sound, returning through the trees. They sang and joked.

"And down the road,"

"From here to there,"

"From here!To there!"

"Three boys, a goat,"

The group emerged from the trees, all on horseback, clad in leather armour and furs. On their faces was large grins and blood. So much blood.

Their eyes were wide with delight and excitement. When they sang they threw their heads back, roaring the song as they went along.

"And a dancing bear!"

"They danced and spun,"

"All the way to the fair!"

They were in front of him now, the heads and limbs of the villagers were tied to the saddle, listing aimlessly around. They were proud, so proud of this evil deed.

He nodded.

The arrows fired first. Flying through the trees and finding necks and flesh. Blood pumped out of the bodies, staining the goose fletching red. Crys and gargles of blood filled the air.

"Kill them all!"

He whispered it so softly, so softly he thought no one had heard. Yet the men charged at them, ripping them limb from limb. They did not kill, only maim. Hands and feet were sown on the ground, blood sprinkled like paint on a tapestry, and the screams filled the air. They left them there. Taking th horses, leaving the corpses, they left.

The screams died down from the wood, but Howland still heard them. Not the screams from the brave companions, but something else. He heard the screams of the villagers, each one. Seven days he failed, on the eighth he succeeded, yet that did not save the villagers.

In the distance crows circled the site, waiting for more food, more of the feast. In the distance they circled Harrenhal too, waiting for the battle that would come. They could sense it, they all could, they would all die.

"The bear, the bear and the maiden fair. From here to here, from here to there, all black and brown an covered in hair!" He whispered. Each word was void and flat, spoken slowly and deliberately.

"What, my lord?" The boy brought him from his trance, saved him from his memories.

"Lead on, I will follow," Howland said, his voice stronger, a fire burning in his belly once more. The boy looked confused, as if someone had asked him a question in Valyrian.

"My lord, you are not clothed," the boy said, his voice broke a few times. Howland stared at him, it was true, he did not wear a tunic.

"Lead on boy," he said, still bare chested. The boy went and Howland followed, his strides much longer than the small boy's. He was led through the labyrinth of tents, and finally, after what seemed like an age, arrived at a tent.

He dismissed the boy with a nonchalant flick of the wrist, he then raised the thick material of the tent flap, and entered. The inside of the tent was magnificent. A glorious table filled the centre, a map and wooden figurines that denoted units of men, were laid out on it. A golden flagon was filled with Arbor wine, loot off of the bloody mummers, stood tall on the table. A goose feather stuffed bed was placed besides the table, a silk sheet and fur placed on top. An oak chair was near a smaller desk, that was home to parchment, ink, and a quill. Candles lit the room, the light shining off the polished plate armour in a corner.

Roose stood, his fists pressing down onto the table, his chest rising and falling, his head turned downwards. His hair was short and thin, but the black hair was not receding. He slowly calculated and articulated the plan, deliberately taking his time. One mistake and they all die.

"We strike tomorrow," his voice whispered. They had planned this attack beforehand, but one complication, or another would tear the plan asunder. The gods were not on their side, not in this.

"What's the plan?" Roose and Howland had discussed it so many times he already knew, but he needed confirmation. They could all die tomorrow, but it would not be because Howland had misheard.

"We ride into Harrenhal, a few Lannister prisoners will be dressed as Northmen and gagged. We then fight, the group keeps the gate open until the foot arrives. It is that simple," Roose whispered, his pale eyes full of excitement. The plan was too simple, so many things could go wrong. Would the Lannisters believe they were the Brave Companions? Would the hostages betray their intents? So many things could go wrong, they will all die...

"Splendid, splendid. Who will lead the groups?" He asked.

"You will lead the horse, a hundred men..." Howland interrupted him.

"No, that will never work. They will know something is up," he thought for a moment. Everything I decide will send men to their deaths, I owe it to them to think hard. Forget the glory, kill the boy and become the man. He wanted so badly to be the man, the man his father wanted him to be. He had killed the boy, but the man would not come, the shadow of the legend was in the way. The legend he wanted, the glory he wanted would kill him, he knew that, accepted that, glory was his immortality. "I will take ten men." I will take Harrenhal with ten men, my name will live on forever.

Roose's pale eyes focused on him, his normally calm, still face now had the threat of confusion, or pain. "You will die, it cannot be done with ten men," he said, his voice no longer a whisper but a shout. Desperation and sorrow filled his voice. "I will not have you throw your life away."

Howland thought for a moment. "Thirty men, and no more. I do this for you, only you. Ten men would of done the job," he promised.

Roose exhaled a small breath, and his face returned to still water, so transparent yet an enigma. He sat on his chair.

"Some men brought me a sword. It was loot from that day you attacked the Brave Companions, someone remarked since you carried that giant's blade, maybe you should carry this too," he pulled from under his cloak a long knife.

No not a knife. This was a sword. As Roose unsheathed it, he could finally see. The blade was long and thin, the cross section looked like a diamond. The blade was so delicately thin he assumed he could snap it over his knee. Gods it looks more like a knitting needle than an actual sword, he thought, grinning like a fool. He wanted to run off and experience this, this sword in his hand, slowly slide it between ribs or lightly slash throats, the movements so careful, yet so carefree. He did not want the responsibility, not anymore, hundreds of lives were his now. This blade was so simple, so youthful. His solitude.

"It is a good blade," he inspected it, analysed it, committing every detail to memory. It was such an unusual blade, he had never seen anything like it. The balance was perfect, the blade was light yet strong, and the steel...

"I know this steel," he whispered softly. He turned the blade over, searching for one tiny mark. "What's the smith called in Winterfell? You know the one, true northern grunt, arrow fodder at best."

Roose's eyes shined a little brighter for a second, but a second was all Howland needed, and they drifted away from his own, searching the room for answers.

"Mikken? Rickon? I don't know, why do you ask?" His voice inquired. Curious are we, my lord of Leeches.

"No matter, I just must needs inquire about his work, some special pieces of his have been misplaced, obviously," he said with a small smile. And with that he made to leave the tent, his stride long and bold.

"Are you not going to drink your wine, my lord?" Roose's voice called from his tent, the slightest hint of anticipation was hidden in its depths. Howland turned about, marched towards the flagon, made to drink...

And then poured the wine to the floor. A big smile crept across his lips as Roose's face flickered with disappointment, then appreciation.

"I'm not a Lord," he said softly. "Not yet."

**YNGVI**

He hated it here. He hated the grass, the trees, even the fucking air. Especially the fucking air. The air that gave these pompous young knights breath whilst fighting a tourney. A tourney during a war; ridiculous. Renly Baratheon, all that it comes down to. He knew that, he always did.

A pompous fool playing at war, even Cat could see that, he thought solemnly. He spat at the ground, silently cursing this King at Storms End. If it was Robert he would be kicking the throne room's door in, not waiting around doing nothing. But it wasn't. It was Renly.

He had his brothers charm, easily securing alliances, alliances that rightfully be Stannis', but not his brothers conviction.

Either of his brothers, Robert or Stannis. Both of them had real conviction, they would fight through all seven hells for their cause. Renly though, he had nothing, that's why he was here hosting a tourney.

He was sat on a carved oak throne, on a raised dais, simple thing made of wood, a golden crown of interlocking antlers on his head, the crowned stag pranced in the breeze. His newly made wife sat elegantly next to him, a small guard stood vigilant behind them. Five men, five colours, looking tired and forlorned.

They look like this now, I wonder how they will look after a battle, he thought again. He held his tongue, but in his mind the curses flowed free and unmolested. He still saw the flames on Pyke, he still saw the blood running on the Trident, and he could still see the Targaryen banner consumed by flames.

These boys had fought in a tourney, blunted blades, wooden weapons. They had not seen what he had, they would not live long enough.

There are old men, and there are brave men. There are no old brave men, he thought. His father's voice echoed through his mind.

He scratched at his newly shaved face, course soap and a blunted blade left his face raw and harsh. He had cut his hair too. The black hair he once had was now grey and dull. He cut it so it was rugged and shaggy, a poor job admittedly, but it still went below his ears.

Renly was youth personified. Tall, strong, easy lips and dazzling eyes. His black hair was nonchalantly swaying in the wind, his crown keeping it down, but it suited him. It was like a golden halo.

Two guards had stopped him approaching the dais until the fight was over. A large man swung an axe, wild and carefree yet with precision, whilst a much smaller man, dwarf in comparison, poked and jabbed with his sword. The larger man's armour was simple plate, blue enamel over some pieces, but nothing elaborate. Yet the smaller man had a labyrinth of thorns and petals and roses, twisting and entwine in his armour.

His oak shield had been shattered into splinters by the brute force of the larger man's blows. A growl escaped the man's lips.

No not man. Woman, it had to be. As she sent one final overhead strike down, the flower knight pressed his sword to her neck. Before he had time to ask for her submission, she had brushed his blade away and sent her gauntlet into his face. A small grapple ensued, finished when the flower knight yielded, a small dirk pressed against his neck.

A small clap was emitted from the dais, deliberate and slow. Renly was now standing, his full height realised. A small smile played on his lips.

"You are everything your father promised and more. Arise, Lady Brienne, I've seen Loras defeated once or twice, but never in that fashion," his voice was loud and clear. "If there is a boon you would ask of me, ask it, if it is in my power I shall grant it."

The Lady took off her greathelm, her face was bruised and freckled, her lips were full and swollen, the only pretty feature was her eyes. Deep and blue, a true sea of emotion. When she spoke a gruff voice was emitted.

"I would ask for a place on your Rainbow guard. I would protect you, hold your trust, and, if I must needs, trade my life for yours," she said kneeling. A roar of disapproval came up from the crowd, louder and louder.

"Done," Renly said with a smile. "Arise, Brienne the blue of my Rainbow guard."

She took her place by her Kings side, taller and prouder than she had ever been. Her fingers slowly gripped her axe's shaft. Her eyes shone with pride, and a small smile threatened her lips.

"Your grace, a Lord Yngvi has asked to speak to you. He comes from Lord Robb Stark," a Baratheon guard spoke, walking forward to address his King.

"King in the North. My knife will silence any man who claims otherwise," Yngvi threatened the guard. His face paled slightly before he scampered off.

"When you approach the King you will kneel," the newly made Rainbow knight called, her blue eyes burning with a fury.

"I bent my knee to Robb, no other man will have that privilege, my lady. However, if we bicker out here discussing what formalities we need to adhere to, well, I doubt I'd feel Lannister blood on my blade again," he spoke as Renly smiled.

"Well said, well said," he paused for a moment. "Walk with me, Yngvi."

They set off alone, apart from the shadow escort of Rainbow guards, away from the camp, onto the lovely flats of the Reach. Silence ruled the walk, neither man seeking the need to talk. Finally, the tension was too much for the younger man.

"You come here to discuss an alliance, yet you do not speak, Lord Yngvi," he licked his lips. His green and black silks shaking in the wind. "Or has the beauty of the land captivated you?"

"It is rather captivating, yet a puddle in comparison to the North, my..." He became stuck on the title, unsure whether to use King or Lord. "My Renly. Besides, a good quite stroll releases the aches and worries of the world, and a war has many aches." He saw the Baratheon flinch slightly at the word "war". How interesting, a Baratheon who isn't interested in warfare?

He also caught the desperate glances at the flower knight, a look of pleading and lust. After each glance, Renly's face was warm once more. So that's how the bugger likes it? Yngvi thought. Not like Robert at all.

"The Lannisters await my pleasure. Robb may win a few battles, but I shall win the war," Renly declared.

"That sounds suspiciously like hiding to me. Robb is fighting battles and winning. We have already defeated both Tywin and Jaime Lannister in the field, can you say the same?" Yngvi's voice was loud and clear.

"I will sit on the Iron Throne," Renly's voice was filled with anger and scorn. Ours is the fury!

"Maybe, maybe not. You will need ships, you will need men,"Yngvi paused. "You will need alliances."

Renly eyed him suspiciously, scanning up and down. "What are you offering?"

"Peace. You kill Lannisters, we kill Lannisters," he gave a small smile. "We do not kill each other."

"And Stannis?" His question was a good one, stunning Yngvi to silence. He had not thought, or even considered Stannis. He was the rightful claimant, yet the Kingdom would bleed after his coronation, and Renly had more men. And men was enough of a claim, especially this number.

The whole of the Stormlords and the Reachlords had gathered behind Renly, Stannis had ships and crew, but not much else besides. Would it be righteous or noble to declare for Stannis for something as trivial as birth? What did honour do for Ned? What did Stannis, or Renly or any of these pretenders do for Ned?

He kept his tongue though. "Stannis will be offered the same terms. The North does not care about the Iron throne, we just want justice and freedom," he said solemnly, the speech had been practised over and over, till he got it just so. "We have been oppressed for too long, we have rid ourselves of the shackles that bound us. We are a free people."

"When I sit my throne, Robb will bend the knee. I will be king of seven kingdoms, not one. He can keep his crown, if he so wishes, but he will pledge me fealty," Renly declared. "Torrhen Stark knelt when he saw he was outnumbered and outmatched. He saw reason and logic, I hope the boy will see the same."

"Robb the boy, as you call him, has seen more battle than you. In my land that makes him a man and you the boy. He has seen more woman than you, again, that makes him more of a man than a sword-swallower like you," fear and rage fought in Renly's eyes but confusion ruled his face. "And Moat Cailin has never, never been taken from the south."

He made to walk off. The wind, and now rain, drenching and freezing him to his core. His fingers were red raw and numb, now unable to grip much anything. He exhaled long and slow.

"Aegon had something you will never have, my lord," Yngvi called, his voice conquering the wind.

Renly turned, his body draped in silks of green and black, now tight to his body. "And what is that?"

"Fire and blood."

**HOWLAND**

"Who are you then?" A deep voice asked. The fat guardsmen's jowels wobbled with every word, a few days had gone since he had shaven, Howland could tell. Red pimples adorned his face and neck.

The rain cascaded down, thick and fast, unrelenting in its assault. The day was dark, the sky black. The cold snapped and bit at his extremities, the wind lapped against his body.

"The brave companions," he answered, feigning an accent, deep Bravossi. His greatsword was slug across his back, the needle like sword and a thin longsword was hanging on his belt.

"We is Lord Hoat," the guard asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. The men laughed, howling like the wolves they were.

Now comes the hard part.

"Lord Goat is dead. His lisp was motht amuthing," Howland mocked, trying hard to keep both accents in check. They all laughed again, even the Lannister guards.

"Really, what happened?"

"The wolves decided to trim his goatee," he smiled. "They missed and cut off his head." Another round of laughter followed. The guard smiled and let them threw the gate.

They rode in, a two column formation, the Lannister standard and the black goat flapping in the wind. The ground was swollen and saturated, mud splashing everywhere.

Howland looked back and saw Harrion slowly ghost his hand over his sword. By his side was Pip.

A young lad, bit of a fool. He got his face beaten up badly when he turned nine, he never realised you could cheat at a finger dance. His nose was badly broken and had never been set right, it skewed and twisted across his face. He was missing his front teeth, and a scar ran from his mouth to his right eye, a boot heel. He was very scrawny, arms thinner than sticks, yet he could wield a sword fair enough. He came from poverty. He was on the march north heading for the Wall when his group was attacked, he found the Stark host and never looked back.

As the column rode through the gate, someone impaled their lance into the guard, his scream of agony was drown out by the crack of lightening.

They rode further and further into Harrenhal, killing Lannisters as they passed. All died completely unaware. The blood ran slick in the mud, but the rain washed it off of their leathers and blades. They entered the courtyard.

Black walls were adorned with rotting corpses, northern men, northern heroes. Bastards, fucking bastards, he thought. He smiled, they would all be dead soon.

"You there, boy," Howland called. "Is Lord Tywin around?"

"No he went back to Kings Landing. The Baratheons will be at the gates soon," he answered.

"Then we will have to get started without him," he said with a laugh. His men joined him, whilst the Lannisters wore confusion on their faces.

Drawing his sword he struck one head from its neck, it landed in a mud filled puddle. And with that chaos reigned.

Blood flowed freely from the Lannisters, they begged for mercy but none was given. Left and right the Lannisters were killed, soon the courtyard was filled with their dead.

Howland got off his horse.

"You, take ten men and secure the gates, I want Roose riding into this place now," he paused for a moment. "The rest of you bastards, follow my arse."

He ran into the hall, his blade red. The northerners stabbed at the Lannisters, blood spraying into the soup they were eating. Some got up to fight, the ringing of steel echoed around the hall for a moment, only to be disrupted by screams of agony.

"You," a deep, raspy voice called. Its owner was old fat man, his jowels wobbled with the force of the word. His bald head was on display with hair at the side, and a thin beard. His armour was spotless, it was adorned with some animal. Manticore, he wondered. He had his sword also drawn, thin line of sanguine ran along the blade, dripping to the floor. Drip, drip, drip; aggravating him.

"Me," Howland called back raising his sword.

The slash was met with a parry, steel met steel, blade met blade. The hacks and thrusts scraped off his armour, leaving scratches and dents, ripping the animal from him. Howland went over, forcing his weight behind the blow. It was so fast the knight could not meet it properly. Howland's blade was halfway through the knight's.

Suddenly, the knight pivoted his wrists, tearing the sword from Howland's grasp. He encroached, swinging wildly at Howland. He slowly drew his needle like blade, letting it dart in and out of the air.

He poked and prodded, judging the knights defence. Then on the next swing, Howland dropped to one knee, and drove the blade upwards.

The two merged blades dropped from the knight's limp fingers, the blood pulsated down the needle like blade, which was now protruding into his neck. A thick choking sound came from his lips, then he dropped to his knees, forcing the blade deeper and deeper.

Pulling the blade out, Howland put it between his forearm and bicep, wiping the blood off of it.

"My Lord, the garrison has surrendered," a northerner said. Howland just looked at him, the fury deep in his eyes.

"Put the garrison to the sword," he commanded.

"But my lord, they yielded," the man's voice desperate.

"The men adorning the walls yielded too. My men, my country men," the fury and venom spreading to his voice. "Men yield, beasts are culled. Praise your gods that I gave them the mercy of a quick death, if it was my way their skins would be proudly displayed under my banners."

And with that Howland stalked out of the hall, some of his men shadowing him.

"What about us?"

Howland turned. A young man stood in front of a cowering bunch. He stood at inches above Howland, and whilst he was muscular, Howland was almost twice his weight.

When did I turn into a smaller Eddard, he thought. It was true, with the constant and prolonged time in his armour, his upper body had grown a lot of muscle.

He looked at the young man. Blue eyes that were as deep as the ocean, but a storm raged in them, deep down in its depths. His black shaggy hair was matted to his forehead, covering his dirty and hard face. He wore an apron and black breeches with mud covered boots.

"Did you serve them? Did you serve the Lannisters?" He asked.

"Yeah but"

"There is no but. You had a choice, and you chose wrong," Howland had interrupted him. The man's face was changed, from startled to angry.

"They would of killed us. We had to serve, we had no choice," the man retorted. His arms flapping to accentuate his point.

"You could of chosen death. You could of died like all those who chose to be true men," Howland responded. And with that he walked to the exit. He turned before he left and said slowly, "Let them live."

He found a chamber befitting him, its window a large crack in the stone but apart from that it was good. Crimson and sanguine covered the bed and walls, bringing colour to the bleak room. The bed was made of feathers and so soft. He lied back and slept. His worries and ails washing away into the sea of unconsciousness.

"My Lord!" The shout woke him up from his dream of darkness. His body ached from the tight leather and chainmail, and he sweated due to the layers of fur that he still wore.

Two guards stood in front of him, struggling to restrain a young boy. No not boy, girl. In her hand she had the thin needle like sword, it seemed suited for her, more so than it did on him.

Her tunic was forced tight against her, her small frame outlined against it.

Poor girl, I have pimples bigger than her tits, he thought as he grinned at his own joke.

She screamed to be released, over and over. Her voice cut the air like steel, with a real fire to it. Then he saw true steel, true fire. Then he saw her grey eyes.


	16. Chapter 16

**HOWLAND**

He knew those eyes anywhere. Grey eyes, Stark eyes, the two walked hand in hand. She had a sharp face, it was long too, not even the dirt and soot could cover it up. Her hair was short, shorter than what a girl her age should be. A rough spun tunic and moth eaten breeches were all that clothed her. On her feet she wore mud caked boots, he hoped. He really hoped it wasn't her feet.

Her small hands were calloused, he could see that now, and lightly gripping the little blade, still sheathed. The guard's hands easily wrapped around her skinny bones, but she fought him with all she had.

Behind the iron of her eyes, there was a brazier, a fire burning white hot. Her snarl was actually quite frightening.

"Leave us," he commanded to the guards. Confusion crossed there faces. "If she was going to kill me, she would of done it already. Besides, the blade is sheathed." He explained rolling his eyes. He sat down in a chair, lumpy and hard, and commanded the little princess to do like wise. She complied, slowly glancing around the room. She put the blade onto the table.

"So, who are you?" Howland asked softly. He let a small smile play on his lips whilst the girl bit her lip.

"My mother called me Nymeria, mi'lord, but I like Nan better. Some call me Arry, most Weasel, but it is at your pleasure, mi'lord," she said. She has a northern voice all right, he thought.

"You have become very good at lying, however, I'll call you Nan for the foreseeable future," he paused and judged her reaction. Before she could say another word he interrupted her. "Now, what service did you provide to the last Lord of this castle?"

She slowly swallowed, composing herself. "I was a cupbearer for Lord Tywin, mi'lord," she said.

Praise the seven and that bloody red god, she was his bloody cupbearer. He laughed. Laughed at the insanity of it all. How the hell did he not realise, the thought kept passing through his mind.

"Its true. Stop laughing. Stop laughing you stupid bull," she started to get up.

"Your grace, I'm sorry. I just had to laugh at Lord Tywin's expense, it is quite ironic. Don't you think?" He asked. Her eyes widen slightly.

"I'm not a Queen, idiot," she called out. Her anger had washed away her lies, all of them. She had truly forgotten Nan, Arry and Nymeria. All that was left was her.

"I'm sorry. Arya Stark is a Princess of the North, as I pledged my sword to Robb, you are my Princess and an heir to the North," he replied, finally controlling his laughter. Her brows furrowed.

"I'm not Arya Stark," each word was pronounced and harsh. She does not trust me, he thought softly. He licked his parched lips.

"Good. I am not in command here, Roose Bolton is. He will use you as a bargaining chip for power, probably marrying you. I will not, however, betray your trust. I accept any name you give yourself, but I know your true name, and when the time comes, I will reveal it once more," he paused, slowly letting the information sink in. "Nan, you will be my cupbearer also, serve me faithfully and do not call me Lord or any other titles. I am the Blackadder to others, to you I am Howland." And with that he got up and walked back over to his featherbed.

He stripped off his clothes. His furs came off, then his leathers, finally his chainmail. He threw his tunic to the ground, then took off his boots and breeches. He climbed under the duvet with nothing but his small underclothes on.

He looked Nan, her glare had softened slightly.

"Well. Are you going to join me?" He realised his mistake the moment he said it. Oh god, I just invited a little girl into my bed. Worse, that little girl is a Stark.

Her eyes widened, her eyebrows were raised in shock.

"I apologise, I er. Please join my bed, in a total none sexual way," she shook her head. Anger overtook him. "Fine, sleep on the hard floor with the cold. Goodluck, Nan." He laid his head on the cool pillow and let sleep take him.

Sleep never came, however. Arya slid into the bed, her warmth so close to him. He hadn't heard her slip out of her breeches or boots, but he knew she had. She smelt like shit and death. Shit and death was sharing his bed, and he couldn't help but smile.

"Who are you?" She asked, after a while.

"Go to sleep," he said. She hit him in the chest, a stone hard fist. "I didn't know go to sleep meant hit me. Damn, for a little girl you really hurt people."

"Who are you?" She asked once more.

"Are you interrogating me?" He laughed. "You bloody well are. I've told you, I am Howland."

"You are not, Howland Reed is my fathers age," she almost shouted.

"So your father is Ned Stark. Interesting. No, I'm not Reed, but he is my namesake. Damnable old thing, really, naming someone after someone. It is a lot to live up to," he was sitting up now, in the bed, the furs and sheets covering his legs. She had not responded to his comment, her face didn't flinch in pain, she just swallowed slightly. "My brother is named Eddard. Awful name. Unless he is the next King in the North, or slays a dragon...well, I guess he is just a shadow of a great man."

"Where did you find Needle?" He gave a puzzled look, he could feel it form over his face. "My sword."

"On a corpse. How did you get here?" She looked at him, her sad, grey eyes a battle of emotion.

"Putting one foot in front of the other," and with that she rolled over and fell into a deep sleep. The rain fell outside, and a storm brewed, but Howland was only concerned with the frail child beside him, and her grey eyes that held her soul.

He lied back and let sleep envelope him, a small smile on his face.

"Wake up," Roose's voice was unmistakable. The rain had stopped outside, and light came into the room. The young Stark had her head resting on the pillow, her chest rising and falling softly, the faint breaths echoed through the silence of the room. He ran a hand through his greasy hair and sat up in the bed.

His eyes were swollen, his muscles stiff and sore, but he still had a small smile on his face. He swung his legs off the bed and got up. He dropped his small clothes and put on a pair of breeches, his back turned to the lady in his bed, however, Roose's men got a full show. He then walked over to Roose and greeted him with a hand shake and smile.

"Welcome, Lord Bolton of Harrenhal AND the Dreadfort. You took your sweet time getting here," Howland said, his good mood singing through his voice.

"Who is the girl?" Roose asked. Never miss a thing do you, you old bastard.

"My cupbearer. I'm saving her til she comes of age. A tight, innocent thing like her, fit for a lord," a few of Bolton's men smiled and laughed.

"My men will take here," one said, slowly marching forward. His hands outstretched ready to grope the young princess. His head was unprotected.

Howland's fist hit the man in his temple. The skin broke slightly, sending a thin line running down his face, and he crumpled to the floor.

"I did mention she was mine," Howland japed. The north men all smiling, except Roose. "We have plans to discuss, do we not."

"We do. Get out," his whisper sent his men out the door. He sat down at the table and Howland joined him. "We have news from the west and the east."

"Do share," Howland said pouring a glass of wine. It was bitter and thick, having to sit all night.

"In the west, Robb has won many victories. Castle after castle has fallen to him, after the Crag, Casterly rock is left undefended. The capital has refused peace terms, as expected, and several heads are now mounting the barricades," Roose whispered.

"Not Sansa's I hope," Howland said. Roose's eyes flashed with suspicion for a moment.

"Nor Arya's. No, it is just a few members from the small council; Slynt and Varys, you know the ones. I have heard whispers that the old man has threatened the boy king several times. Apparently he wishes to take to the field. Foolish, yet I do wish it so.

"Unfortunately, Stannis has landed his troops outside the walls of Storm's End. Your father has a sibling rivalry on his hands. We need Stannis' ships, but we also need Renly's troops. I'm glad we have the easy task of dealing with the Freys," Roose joked.

"I'm guessing we do not have the Iron born support," Howland hypothesised.

"No. We received a raven from Winterfell," he waited a few moments, looking Howland straight in the eye. "Theon has attacked the north."

**TITAN'S BASTARD**

It was warmer in Essos than in Westeros. The sun scorched the earth in its merciless heat, and no salvation came from the rain, or the nonexistent wind. There was just the sand and the sky. He would drink the wells dry when he found them, the Rhoynar would be a trickle, all due to his herculian thirst.

His lips were dry and cracked, his throat saw and his shaven head red. His grey eyes darted left and right, searching for the way forward. There was no set plan, just one foot in front of the other, over and over, till his feet were blistered and boots torn apart. He clutched at the thin cloak that covered his body, keeping the sun at bay. The cooling sensation of sweat, trickled down his back, over the scars. Over the memories; the past.

Not his past, another man's. A man who knew honour and love and warmth. This man had a life, a place to slip and fall into doom. That man died, and now only the bastard remained.

He could not fall, he was already in hell. He could not die, he was already dead. He could not falter, or it would of been for nothing. And he could never return. He was a memory, floating carelessly in the breeze, waiting for the gale that would sweep him away.

But it never came, only the guilt. How could I leave them? How could I abandon my pack?

The words echoed through his mind, no answer was given, only silence.

"How is my bastard doing?" His companion asked. He had grown his hair, dying it a vibrant blue, and painting his face white. His teeth were stained red from the paste he applied each day.

"Tired, I can not stand this heat any longer," he cried, spitting into the ground. His companion laughed.

"It took me years to get used to this heat. Years, but I had those. I also had the Targaryen children underwatch, always reporting back to my lord," he said softly. Another man, he thought, another life. "The boy was mad, but the girl. Aegon the conqueror with a cunt. Delicious." He roared with laughter at his own joke.

"How far must we go?" His raw throat croaked out. There was a painful lump in his throat, making him unable to swallow.

"It seems you are ice my lord, melting in this fierce heat. Please, do not become water," he mocked.

"Ned Stark is dead. There is no one left," he responded, his fist clenched. He left them, he said his farewells in his heart, and that was where he would keep them; forever. He would save his house and go to the Wall, to finish up his life.

"He was a great man, I will miss him," he responded with a small smile. He too had responded badly to the heat, his skin was stretched tight over his ribs and skull and his breathing became more and more rapid. He panted after each word and step, struggling to stay alive. "He had a bit of a limp though."

It was true, he had a limp, his leg did not ache as it used to but it was still stiff. It had been a few months since the spear pierced his leg, since the knife grazed his throat, since the escape. He had crossed the sea, ridden from Bravos, and now he was walking, half-starved and suffering from heat stroke. They had not heard a word from Westeros, not from his son, or wife.

No, not my son. Not my wife. I am the Bastard of Titan, nothing else. He reminded himself. He struggled with the name, but since he passed under the Titan's loins, he knew. He was his bastard forever more.

"We are nearly there now, whores for our cocks, wine for our bellys, and pillows for our heads. What could be better?" He laughed.

He was right. They soon arrived at a river, on which a town was situated. The walls were dyed a ruggish brown from the suns glare, all sandy and weak. The ground was not cobbled or straight, just dust, a pale yellow that hung in the air after every step. They soon found an inn, old wooden boards creaking with delight for the new guests. They took a room.

It was small, the wooden beds were packed into a corner. They had no mattress, only a sheet covering the straw. His companion took one and covered himself up tight with the blankets and sheets.

"Who was the first man you killed? I remember mine; Joer big sword. He had a cock bigger than his sword, with great big scars running across his face. His teeth were black as night, all rotten and sweet smelling. I was just past my nineth name day, a little skirmish had broken out outside my village. Being a bastard, this was my chance at glory. I picked up a dead man's sword, nicked and rusty. I ran at the first man I saw and skewered Joer in the belly. He didn't die straight away," he paused for a moment and looked straight at him. Grey eyes met black ones. "He laughed. The crazy bastard laughed. He told me next time to aim higher. He told me to have another go. I was so frightened he had to pull the blade out himself. His bloody hands forced the thing into mine, and he pulled himself onto my blade.

"Do you think I will see him again? I don't really remember his face, it has sort of merged and deformed. I know the face I see is his, yet, I know it looks nothing like his real face. I've killed so many men now, I can't see their faces. I don't know their names, I don't know their lives. I can't even tell you how many years they had. It just becomes a blur. Do you think they will wait for me? Their knives sharp and ready. Or will they not care? I don't feel anything anymore, just the cold. It creeps through my bones, like death himself is caressing me. I doubt I'll make it through the night.

"I'm not scared, just anxious. I will meet them soon. No words will be spoken. No forgiveness given. I've never sought redemption, even now I still joke about whores and drink. I've squandered away my youth, and my money. All I have is bastards and my sword. Forgive me Ned. Forgive me. The voices won't, but you will. You will forgive me."

And with that he fell asleep. In the morning, the Titan's bastard was dead, Eddard Stark in his place. Gorne also was dead. Dying in his sleep, he clutched at a note.

"Promise me, Ned." Was all that it said.

**THEON**

It was cold and dark. The darkness was enveloping and silent. It flowed around him, like a stiff breeze, kissing his skin but never anything more. It teased him. Prodding and probing, testing his defence.

His mind was slipping. He could not grasp onto it anymore. It moved and fluxed, from one memory to the next; from one truth to another. The truths he so desperately clung onto, were hollow and corrupt, taunting him with his innocence, his naivety, to believe in such things.

His blood ran down from his shackles, that cut so cruelly into his skin, and followed his naked form, down his arm, down his rib cage, and down his legs. It dripped from his toes to the ground, so close yet so far. He levitated in the air. His arms numb and unfeeling, his body strained and sore.

The shackles were cold. The iron delved deeper and deeper into his skin, the cold, bruntness to the metal, so uncompromising, spread across him. He was in pain. So much, he could not yell, or scream. He knew his fate.

Turncloak. Traitor. Wolf.

Theon, the Young Wolf's Bitch. The iron born who bent over for the greenlander's cocks. A fitting lie, a hell of a way to die.

No not die, not yet, never yet. Robb, yes Robb. Robb needs you. You had a mission, granted you failed, but still...you swore an oath. You keep that oath.

The voice visited him sometimes. It was frantic and desperate, his rushed pace scared Theon. He knew time was running out. Not the time for Robb, or even himself. Well, it was himself that time was running out for, but not physically, but mentally.

He could not withhold the darkness much longer. It danced around him, weaving its intricate web of deceit, holding back the truth and his sanity...no, corrupting his sanity. Wait, corrupting the truth.

He slowly released a deep breath. The vapours hung in the air. He slowly opened his eyes. The darkness was still there. Still watching. Still waiting. It was ready to consume: consume him; the world; everything. Everything that mattered.

Theon's world was no longer this broad plane; it spanned from this wall to the door. Winterfell and Highgarden were just long forgotten names, his name was all he clung onto, his mission.

He remembered, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. They would be back soon.

Their hooded forms would swagger in from the darkness, their blades glinting in the moonlight. When the questions began the pain would be renewed.

Who is the king? Who is your father? What is your name? Why are you here? What have you done? Should we kill you now?

Always in that order.

When he arrived on Pyke, the salt was in the air, the wind was in his hair and his cock was still wet. He had dressed in his silks and a cape, proudly displaying the Kraken of his house. His sword was at his side and the smile was on his face.

The crossing from Seagard was short, the winds were in his favor, he truly had the drowned gods's blessing- or so he thought. He was so green back then, truly he was pathetic.

He had gone to his father expecting open arms, yet that was not the welcome he received.

"Does Ned Stark find it fitting to dress my son as a whore?"

He was sat in his carved wooden throne, the arms were tentacles, the back; the Krakens head. He stared straight into the flames on his fallen throne, ignoring his son, ignoring the world, a dagger dancing in his hands.

His hair was grey and brittle, balding at the top of his head. His skin was pulled taunt across his skull and his grey robes covered his frail body. He did not carry blades anymore, but his daughter did, and she never left her father's side.

Asha. The bitch, the whore. Stealing away everything that is mine.

"My son, the rest remains to be seen."

He should of known. His father was a spiteful, blind man. He could not see, could not see his failings; to land, to the people, to his blood. He had sent Theon away, sent him into the arms of his enemies, and cursed him because of it.

His stolen, sporn-filled glances told Theon everything. He hated his son. He hated his blood.

What the northmen said was true; he was no Greyjoy. Not anymore. What his father said was true; he was no Stark. He never was. He was lost.

Lost in the game of thrones. Lost in his mind. Lost in his loyalties. Lost in his duties. He was lost, and he had no way out.

He begged, begged, his father to attack the Lannisters. He did not listen. He told him again and again, he could not hold the North.

He remembered the council with Robb. The faith he had in Theon; he could not fail him. He never revealed the new defences around Moat Cailin. No, Theon is a true man. He never revealed the new host gathering at Winterfell. Sneaky Theon.

And when his father gave him the ultimatum, Theon answered true...

He was Robb's man. His friend. His brother. His blood.

"He is not your blood."

"Oh but father he is. I fought by his side. My blood spilled, his blood spilled, Lion blood spilled. We are brothers in blood. His blood runs in my veins, and mine in his."

His father hit him. A nonchalant back hand strike, more a blow to his pride than actual pain, but Theon could not let it go. He could never let it go.

His blade pierced his father's heart, drinking in the blood. He still saw the look on his father's face. It was engraved in the darkness, permanent in his mind. The look in his eyes was surprise.

He pissed himself. The great, King Balon pissed himself before he died. His own son killed him.

He laughed. His roar filling his small, black world. Each laugh forced the chains deeper into his wrists. The blood poured out onto the floor. His laugh turned into a cry of pain. The cry of pain turned to tears.

I killed my own father.

The thought consumed his mind; consumed the darkness. The only words that mattered to him.

I killed my father.

I killed my father

"I killed my father."

His voice was rough, and desperate. The pain deep and constant. He killed his father.

He was not the first Greyjoy to do so and he would not be the last.

"The Greyjoy name dies with me."

His thoughts and the voice were one and the same now. His reality and his memories so blurred and indistinguishable. Nothing made sense, everything confused him. His brain hurt. Hurt from his thinking.

"Don't worry. The pain will go soon. Right now, you are leading the charge against the North. You have united the Iron born under your banner Theon, too bad its not actually yours." This voice was not his. It was deeper, more assured. Everything about it had a nonchalance, an aura of confidence. A man stepped forth from the shadows. He was skinny and dressed in black clothes. His hair was blonde and his eyes were green.

"Unlucky Theon. You die here," and with that, his throat ripped open. His head dropped as his life blood pooled under Theon's feet.

Gods save me, now that I am truly lost, he prayed before the darkness took him.

A/N: Wanted to get this Chapter out there so no Yngvi. I know, I know, the bloody story is named after him he should be in here somewhere. Well, he isn't. Ned is, and Howland is, and Theon is, and that's it until next week. Sorry I'm not updating as often as I should do but I'm at college. Any suggestions would not hurt in the slightest...apart from if its a suggestion to lose weight...

...that would hurt...

...alot...


	17. Chapter 17

**YNGVI**

Storms End rose from the water like a fist of rock. Waves crashed below and the storm raged above, but nothing could conquer it. The Baratheon stag pranced along the battlements, careless and free.

Far below, another stag stood tall and proud. It was as defiant as the keep, and as angry as the sea. It raged. The stag was cast forth from the fiery heart, the cloth beating. Slowly waiting, slowly stalking, this stag is not the prey.

But it was hunted. Surrounded by a wall of horse and a wall of rock, it was surrounded and outnumbered. A small host, cowering from the wind, it was half of Robb's host at best, dressed in leather and rusted mail. The horse was all light and too few to make a difference.

Two thousand paces separated the two stags, the two kings, and in that space the wind ruled and the grass grew, ignorant of the upcoming storm. Yngvi could feel it in his bones. The blood would flow, the fight would erupt and pour from the hosts. No quarter asked, none given. One king would fall, but his would not be the only death. He had a small hope, one small hope, that he could stop Stannis. Make Stannis see reason, sense.

So he waited. Renly would come, or Stannis, and the other brother would follow. Three Baratheons; three kings, and yet the air was thick with unfamiliararity, and bitterness. The aura was stale, the tension thick. Yngvi slowly massaged the handle of his axe, smooth wood, soft against his touch.

He was in Renly's camp, asleep in his tent, when a squire of some knight summoned him to Renly's tent. Renly was pacing the room, his fists clenched, his black hair wild, his blue eyes raging.

"He attacked Storm's end. Fucking Storm's end. The fucking bastard," Renly had raged, punching and throwing objects around the tent, only Loras Tyrell could console him.

Only Loras was in the tent. Why was his boots on the wrong...oh, so that's who. That must of been embarrassing for the young squire. Yngvi had smiled at his analysis.

The young King roared and raved, like a boy with his toy taken away. All he saw was betrayal and deceit. He had summoned his lords and decided that Stannis, not the Lannisters, was the real threat.

So they had marched, Yngvi being dragged to watch the show, the show on Kinslaying and regicide, one way or another.

The horse rode ahead, the foot trailing behind, acting like a rear guard. It did not matter though, Renly had ten times Stannis' number in horse alone, double that in foot. Stannis had a rag tag group of men, brought together, not from love of Stannis, or hate for his enemies, but from necessity. Convenience. No one else would have them.

There was so few men.

A stag approached. It had a fiery heart, that meant one thing; Stannis.

He was a tight man. His face was thin, his skin tight to his skull, gripping onto his cheekbones. Bags hung low under his blue eyes. His black hair was thin and brittle, divergent to Renly's thick, coal hair. It had started to retreat, it's line faltering.

He had the width in the shoulders, just like a Baratheon, but his arms and body were thin, where Robert's and Renly's were corded with muscle.

A set of armour enveloped him; he did not seem the man who destroyed the Iron fleet, nor the stubborn git, who held out against the Flowers. No, he seemed old, and frail. Small bits of saliva culminated near the corners of his mouth.

Beside him was a women. Her head was covered in demon red, unholy and demonic. The aura of death danced around her, consuming her. He could smell it, feel it, on her.

He knew the smell. He knew the sense. Death was on him too.

Her skin was porcelain white. It looked fragile, and cold, never to be touched. Her cheeks had no colour, but her eyes seemed to twitch like a flame.

"I don't think we have met," Stannis said, breaking the silence.

"I am Lord Yngvi, sent here by King Robb Stark to negotiate an alliance..."

"So, the two usurpers plot with each other, I should have known," Stannis bared his teeth, his old face in a snarl.

"Robb is King in the North. No true Baratheon sits the Iron throne so he has declared independence. Besides, Kinslaying is more of a sin than usurping, by both gods and men. Although, by mens laws, it seems you are a craven," Yngvi replied, a pleasant smile on his lips.

"You dare insult the true King..." The priestess began.

"I do not insult, I state facts. Whilst Northmen die fighting lions, I see you war against your own brother, or hiding on your shit stained rock, you call home. Gods strike me down if I lie," Yngvi retorted. No retribution came from the gods, only the wind.

"Why are you here? Is it not craven to run from a war, a war that is being waged in the riverlands?" Stannis replied, after a few moments. His smile seemed to toy with Yngvi.

"I have killed enough Lannisters, more than your host combined. I plan on taking Kings landing, with one Baratheon or another," he replied simply. Stannis seemed to smile more honestly with that answer.

"I only want what is mine by rights. I am the elder, I am the true king. Renly owes me loyalty and obedience, I mean to have it. I will become THE king," Stannis swore, fire deep in his eyes.

That's when Renly rode in. Like his brother, a woman carried his standard, un like his brother, he was dressed in green finery rather than armour. Renly seemed at ease, confident, almost arrogant, of the situation. He wore a crown of golden roses, whilst Stannis wore no crown.

They were both armed. Stannis had a plain sword, with a leather scarbard and belt, whilst Renly had black diamonds along his belt, his sheath had rubies encrusted in it, and his sword's grip was gold spun cotton, entwined around it.

Brienne was covered in her dull, battle scarred armour, her face hidden behind her helm. Nothing was there to reveal her sex.

Stannis greeted his brother, curtly. "Lord Renly."

"King Renly. Is that truly you, brother?"

"Who else would it be?"

Renly smiled, and gave a small shrug. "When I saw that standard, I was not certain. What is that?"

The priestess spoke up, arrogance oozing from her words. "The king has taken the fiery heart of the lord of light for his sigil."

Renly laughed. "All for the good. If we use the same banner, the battle will be terribly confusing."

"Why do you both persist on this folly? You are brothers, not baseborn scum. We share a common foe, but your arrogance and egos cloud your minds in ignorance."

"I am no fool, lord Yngvi. The Iron Throne is mine, all those who deny me are my enemies," Stannis said with a frown, his hand twitching towards his sword.

"The whole realm denies it, brother. From Dorne to the Wall. Babies deny it on their mothers teat, whilst old men deny it with their last breath," he smiled. "No one wants you for their king. Sorry."

"Then they shall all burn," the priestess said. "Death by fire is the purest death."

Fire flashed across his mind. The heat itched at his skin, poking and prodding. Soon, he was not in the Storm lands, but back on Pyke.

The mud and sand was around him. The salt in the air was battling with the smoke and death, for supremacy. Everywhere Yngvi looked, fire filled his eyes. A boy cowered on the floor, rolling and thrashing about. Grunting like a pig in heat, he screamed. His colour was fading, all he was was red, and orange, and yellow, and flame.

Stark or Greyjoy, friend or foe, it did not matter. The flames consumed him. Danced with him. Destroyed him. After only his charred corpse remained.

"You will change your mind after you see a man burn. Smell him, taste him in the air. Fire is the destroyer of worlds," Yngvi said, no tone or pitch, his words flat and emotionless.

"But my lord, fire is the servant of R'hollor," the priestess promised.

"Then your god is a demon monkey, and no friend of mine."

"Nor mine." Renly agreed smiling.

"Do you have commands or just japes?" Stannis offered.

"Join me. Bend the knee and we can take Kings landing together. You will be my hand, my whole council. You shall be Lord of Storms End, and Dragonstone, even Casterly Rock if it pleases you. Brother, join me. Join your destiny, and show the world that ours is the fury," Renly finished, unshed tears in his eyes. The need and desperation hung there too, all it need was for Stannis to see, see the true Renly. The mask of arrogance had been torn away, now only his true self remained; vulnerable and helpless.

But Stannis never saw it, and as he said his words, Renly's tears fell silently to the ground.

Renly did not argue with his brother over tedious subjects or titles. "Tomorrow then," he whispered before leaving.

Yngvi left with him, knowing who the true King should be. It was neither of these brothers, though. And that would tear the realm apart.

**HOWLAND**

"Thrust harder. Come on girl, you are not going to hurt me," Howland taunted as the thin girl slashed at him once more. Her black hair was tied back, her muddy face in deep concentration, and her thin hand gripped the sword softly.

Her sword stung the air once more, splitting her enemy apart. That is, if he hadn't already moved. Her slash met air, but Howland's thrust, with his stick, hit true.

She dropped Needle as her knuckles split opening, sanguine dripped to the ground. It danced across the leaves; brown or green, dead or alive. The deep colour conquered across the ground, spreading like a weed. Its influence growing.

Yet, as the crimson spreads, the colour thins, until, eventually, the blood is thinner than water.

"That hurt," Arya complained, as she viciously sucked her wound. Her teeth were stained red, and embers were relit in her grey eyes.

"Not hard enough, I fear. Stand side face, on your toes. Lean on your back leg, but be ready to spring forward. Keep your guard high," he explained. He poked and prodded at her, forcing her to comply. Her stance soon became suitable.

"Patience, that is you. It is your very being. It is what you need to be. Don't ever strike. Wait. The opportunity will arise. A slip, a misstep, an err. When it comes, pounce. One thrust, one kill. That is what you must do," he slowly whispered into her ear. He lifted her guard up higher, before stepping away and facing her.

"Begin!"

She did not pounce, but remained focussed. Her sword swayed with the breeze, little circles drawn in the air. She breathed slow and deliberate, her eyes concentrated, yet her face calm.

A smile played on his lips before he lunged. He thrusted, she pushed it aside, trying desperately to force her blade down to his hand. He twisted the branch, forcing her blade to the ground. The branch was mere inches from her throat, whilst Needle was in the air. In nothing.

"Patience. Timing and patience is key. You are not strong enough to fight a real duel. Wait for the time to strike. Again!"

This time she did wait. They stood for an hour, unmoving. The light crept into the godswood, rising in the sky. Yet she did not care, and Howland only stood smiling. Then he lunged. She parried and stepped away. Again and again he went for her, and everytime she stepped away. Finally, a slower, more deliberate attack forced her to step in. Her thin blade was cold against his neck.

"Good, you do listen," he joked. " Tomorrow will be harder."

"I doubt it, I have just killed you. Dead is dead," she whispered back. He smiled.

"No, you have given me a quick death. A mercy," he prodded his stick into her stomach softly. "You have a slow one. Like you say: dead is dead."

She returned the smile before removing her steel.

"Come on, we have work to do," and with that he led her through the Godswood, and into the labyrinth that is Harrenhal.

Several weeks had passed since the Northern host had taken the castle, the bodies had been removed, yet the blood still stained the walls, and the aroma of death was thick in the air.

The ground had hardened due to the mixture of rock and mud. It was uneven, but it was no longer swollen. The guards on the wall wore grey instead of red, leather and fur instead of metal and silk, they were alive instead of dead.

The horses were kept in the large stables, across from the smithy. The fires burnt all night and day, never resting. The song of steel kept the castle awake at night.

It was Howland's fault. He had no sword, and while he did like his axe, he felt naked and exposed without the blade. He found an apprentice blacksmith, a bastard called Gendry.

The lad was a hard worker, strong like a bull, and stubborn like a mule. His hair was as dark as the coals he worked, and his eyes blue. His arms were entwined with muscle that had conquered his chest and legs. He was a solemn man, rarely taking to mead, and never taking to women, but he always had a smile for Arya, something that Howland was quite anxious about.

The boy did fine work though, only a year older than Howland and yet an artist. He had worked on the blade night and day and it would soon be delivered.

"How is the blade coming Gendry?" Arya called.

"The bastard will get it when he gets it," a dark voice replied.

"Aye, both us bastards will get a blade. Me in hand, you through neck," Howland responded bitterly. He had no doubt that they hated each other, yet for the life of him Howland couldn't figure out why.

Voices lurked in the dark corridors as they approached his room. Entering the large room, Howland tore off his tunic, throwing it by the door. He plunged his head into the clear water, stored in a bucket by the bed, before sitting down at his desk.

The water ran down his back, chasing his sweat, dancing with it, fighting it on the battle ground of his skin.

"Your back is getting worse. Its all green, and red, and yellow. Seven hells, its disgusting," Arya taunted as she brought him the letters.

"I know you are just dying to pick them," he retorted, as she made a gagging sound.

Howland picked the letters apart, scribbling down replies, plots and schemes, battles and skirmishes, all dictated by the quill.

"How goes the war?" She asked timidly, her voice almost a whisper.

"We are winning," he responded with a smile, yet each word was pronounced slowly and deliberately, and his eyes never left the letters.

"Please, I need to know," she said, her pale fingers gripping his arm. He looked at her then, her eyes brimmed with tears, yet she allowed none to fall.

"Why? Why do you always ask?" He whispered, not to her, to himself.

"They are my blood. My family. My pack. You don't understand," she roared, her voice becoming more and more desperate and frantic as the sentence progressed.

Silence filled the air for a few moments.

"In the west we have won victory after victory. We rule from Riverrun to the Stoney sept. From there we harass the Gold road, stopping patrols and reinforcements from King's landing. Here we harass the Kingsroad. The Saltpans is still defiant, as is Maidenpool and Duskendale, so we send out men to kill stranded lions..."

"When will we take King's landing?" She interrupted.

"Nan, calm. That is the problem. We have advance quickly on both fronts, in the West, once the Crag falls, Casterly Rock is undefended and we could take it. However, that means a siege. Sieges take time, they are costly, and if Tywin takes us from the rear it will be a massacre. Robb may even need more troops, calling us from the East to take the Rock, however this is unlikely, that would leave us exposed, we would lose all our gains, and everything from Riverrun to the wall would be ripe for the taking.

"Here is a more worrying dilemma. We have the Saltpans, which is ready to fall just needs a push, then we have Maidenpool. Now we need to take these keeps or, when we try for Duskendale, we will be taken in the rear. Then after Duskendale it is King's landing.

He scratched his head, his fingers running through his wet hair. "But King's landing is well built; strong thick walls, iron gates, it will not fall easily. We do not have ships to attack by sea, and we do not have the men to attack by land. The lion is also sharpening his fangs in his nest, he will not meet us in the field. If we approach they will kill Sansa, whilst we kill Jaime and Tyrion, all their heads mounting spikes, ours or theirs. Not at all honourable I'm afraid."

He finished, his voice turning into nothing. The room was filled with the noises from the courtyard, men japing and laughing, slowly sharpening their swords.

"What about alliances? Can't we get armies on our side?" She whispered. Pain filled her eyes, slowly consuming her.

"That is what we are trying. After I sent Clegane's and Lorch's heads to Dorne, they sent marriage pacts back. Arya and Sansa would have to marry Dornish Princes," he said with a smile. "The Reach has declared for Renly as well with the Storm lords. Stannis has claimed the crown as well. Renly and Stannis are squabbling like children, but if both die then that is the end of the Baratheon line, apart from Stannis' daughter. The Greyjoys have claimed a crown as well."

He realised his mistake. He mentioned the Greyjoys.

"What did he do?" She whispered, the fear deep within her voice.

He didn't know what to say. Does he tell her about the invasion?

"He attacked the north," he said softly, as he gripped her hand. He did not talk as the tears rolled down her face, he just pulled her into him. Her small body was enveloped by his. "Winterfell is safe, little one. Your family is safe. I will kill them all."

He knew he would, he promised it, owed it to her.

"What else? Last hearth? The Dreadfort? What else has been attacked?" She whispered, her voice so quiet now, her breath warm against his chest.

"Torrhen's square was attacked, as was Moat Cailin. The Moat held, the defenders killing all the Ironborn, including a Greyjoy. The square fell briefly, before reinforcements from Winterfell mounted squid's head's on spikes. Deepwood Motte has fallen, but is totally surrounded and is under seige. Apparently there is a Greyjoy there too, a woman. I guess, in another life, she is your hero," he said with a smile. A small fist hit his ribs with pace causing Howland to smile deeper.

"Thank you."

He let her up after that and went back to his letters. The runes he put on the parchment would secure the North, he knew. The king had called, his home would answer.

"The blade, my lord," Gendry's voice, gruff and harsh, pierced the room. He stood in the doorway. He wore black breeches, tied with worn lace, a soiled cotton tunic covered his torso, its sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His black hair was matted to his forehead, tuffs stood up at the side of his head. In his hands he held a long black sheath.

He walked over and drew the blade. The oil and metal shimmered and shined, rippling and dancing in the light. The leather was tight but soft, and dyed black. There pommel was a snakes head, it's fangs bared and ready, it's ruby eyes intent and determined. There was a deep nick on the end of the cross guard.

"This is good work. Well balanced and aesthetically pleasing," he turned to Gendry. "Kneel." He commanded. The bastard looked confused, and was about to protest, but he didn't; he knew his place. He knelt down and dipped his head, waiting for a blow.

The blade touched his neck. He could feel its sting. He could feel the cold. He took one last breath.

"Rise ser," Howland said, taking the blade away.

AN: Sorry. Sorry for the massive delay, think its been a month. Could bullshit you but honestly I just had more important things to do and never got the time. However, to make up for this, I'm pretty sure to update another chapter this week, maybe even two. As always, review, tell me what I should do with this story. I will be going massively off canon, so far you will not remember the original storyline.

Also, please, please, please, someone publish a story in the Battle Royale section. Make some noise about it. It is an awesome book, there are really well written stories and plot lines there and it is a real shame that there is only 250 stories.


	18. Chapter 18

**YNGVI**

"You will tell Robb to bend the knee, or I will kill you," Renly roared.

"Please try. I maybe old, but I've killed better men than you. I can kill you with one hand whilst bugger Ser Flower with the other," Yngvi roared back.

"Bare your steel then. Is there metal behind your words, or just ash," Ser Flower joined the assault.

"My king shall have no part in kinslaying. It is against all laws; god and men are at one with this," Yngvi argued.

"So regicide and incest are acceptable in their eyes?" Renly mocked, a slight smile on his face.

"More acceptable than buggering Ser Flower," Yngvi smiled back.

"My name is Loras!" Ser Flower shouted. "Fucking Loras!"

A small smile flickered on Renly's lips. The air became stale and uneasy. The queerness of the situation threw off Yngvi. The argument, that was so fierce moments ago, was now ash. Silence. Nothing.

The three men seemed to have calmed. The aggression and testosterone waned, the tide of ignorance was pushed back to reveal a shore of enlightenment.

"Apologies, Ser. Your grace. I think we all need a moment," Yngvi said, his head bowing a little.

"No need. Fuck! If my brother wasn't a total delinquent, he would solve our predicament. We will destroy my brother, then take King's landing," Renly swallowed hard, and scratched his head. He, reluctantly, added: "Then we will make peace with the North."

Yngvi nodded in acceptance.

"Bring in the other lords. We still have a battle to win," and Loras did just that. He exited the tent, and moments later, a host of noble lords entered. The rest of the rainbow guard entered as well, even Brienne the blue.

They all sat down at the table, it was large and filled the large tent. Even then the lords were squeezed together, forcing the guards to stand, Yngvi included.

Renly sat at the head of the table, arrogantly slouched in his high seat. His right hand was gripping his chin and he stared at the table; an image of concentration.

All around him, the air swirled with argument and counter argument. The battle plans mingled and merged.

"Tyrell should lead the van, Baratheons in the rear."

"No, Renly must lead te charge himself. Not only does it show his courage, but it also shows his tolerance for traitors."

"No. That would make Renly a kinslayer, and would put him in needless danger. Let Loras lead the charge, or Garlan in Renly's armour."

"We should try to negotiate peace again."

"We should move on and strike King's landing."

"That would make us look defeated. They would claim Stannis beat us here."

"Not to mention that it would weaken us to fight Stannis later."

"Stannis is not the enemy. The Lannisters are the enemy."

"All who oppose Renly are the enemy. Including Stannis."

Soon, after many cups of wine, Yngvi's head started to spin. He wasn't sure if it was the drink, or if it really was the lords, but everything got louder. The tent was just noise; needless and unapproved.

The air was thick and hot. His undershirt was clinging to his skin, his sweat soaking the garment. Soon the air was a mix of sweat and smoke from the candles.

Every movement was deliberate and felt. Every twitch of his leg, or intake of breath, he felt a pain. Not sharp, but just consistent. Bearable but annoying.

"We are agreed then. Loras will lead the charge with Baratheon men, yet Renly will still be in the first charge." All heads nodded, the words had broken Yngvi's trance.

The lords all exited the tents faster and with more haste then they entered. Soon only Yngvi, the young king, and Brienne remained.

Yngvi took a chair and collapsed into it. He panted and gasped, breathing deep and heavy. The urgency for air overtook him and he felt light headed.

Renly seemed not to notice as he was soon placing armour onto himself, his giant of a woman helping him. Her normally brutish hands seemed softer, he touch more loving, than usual.

Renly's armour was a deep green, not unlike the green of spring leaves, the armour was thick and strong. Golden highlights danced and pranced around its fringes, twirling on its own accord.

He pushed his hair back, as Brienne fastened the leather straps off his armour, and tied it off with velvet. A padded cap was pulled down over his head, followed by chainmail. The chainmail stopped short, just above his hairline. His helm, green with golden antlers, would soon cover his head and secure the chainmail. Brienne fastened his cloak, cloth-of-gold with the crowned stag, painstakingly, picked out in flakes. Finally his gauntlets came on, then fastened to his forearms. Brienne buckled on his sword belt, rubies and jet sewn into the design.

"Will you fight wit us, Yngvi? My brother always respected you," Renly asked, as Brienne walked away to get his helm.

Renly looked in the mirror, analysing his armour, searching for weaknesses. His shadow looked grand and gallant behind him. Its cape fluttered slightly in the breeze, and its sword was raised.

There was no breeze, and it would take a gale to move the heavy cloak. More worringly, Yngvi realised, his sword was still in its sheath.

The shadow soon sheathed its sword...

...Right into Renly's back. The blood sprayed of the hole immediately, as if the blade was not there. The blade vanished, only to reappear across Renly's neck.

The weight of his chainmail, forced his head back. The shadow sword dug deeper, and deeper into the King's flesh. The blood sprayed across the tent, and covered the mirror. The sanguine ran down the silver surface, whilst a pool was collecting on the floor.

Renly's throat was completely open. The wound was raw and red. It looked like a wicked smile. In between the crimson sea, isles of white provided salvation.

Renly was dead, only the shadow kept him up. And with the next breeze, he drifted away, like it was never there. Renly collapsed, lifeless, to the floor. His leg did not twitch. Nor did he gasp for breath. He lay still and calm, almost sleeplike, apart from the blood.

The crimson tide moved across the floor, spreading like an unconquerable host. Its colour was constant and oppressive; dominating all other colours. Soon, after the trickle that escaped from Renly's wounds ran dry, the host stopped; sudden and abrupt.

The colour had drained from Renly's face, he was pale. His laughter and emotion in life, had left him in death, his face calm and impassive.

Brienne finally turned. Her wordless roar of anguish pulled Yngvi from his chair. She ran, in full plate armour, from one end of the tent to the other, and gripped her love. This was not just her king, or her lord. This was her heart.

The blood stained her armour a deep sanguine. The blue sea was tainted and corrupted by the blood. It did not merge or diluted; it possessed. It conquered.

She cried and cried, all the while oblivious to the movement behind her. Ser Robar Royce and Ser Emmon Cuy advanced, their swords drawn, the blades ugly and fierce.

They were both in full plate, the articulated pieces slowed their movements and sounded their advance.

"Gods Brienne, why?" Robar called from behind his helm, whilst his brother in arms just slashed downwards with a wordless cry of anguish and anger.

Two swords met in the air; Yngvi's and Emmon's. Yngvi slowly fingered his axe, waiting for movement from the two Ser's. Brienne looked up from the corpse, her cloak a deep crimson. The blood had soaked deep into the cloth, and it drowned out the sea of blue. Her eyes were still red and deep with tears, with their tracks on her cheeks.

"You will die for this. Both of you!" Emmon roared. Yngvi gave him a slight smile.

"I think not. Put aside your steel. Renly's death was not our doing. You wrong us, Sers. It was Stannis," he said. He doubted whether it was Stannis, but he knew. Deep in his heart, he knew. Stannis was kinslayer, cursed by the Gods forever more. And Yngvi needed to be the Gods harbinger, especially this far south.

"How?" Royce asked, his eyes frightened and pale. The light had left them.

"I do not know. Sorcery? Dark magic? But the Gods be cursed, he did it," Yngvi declared, his eyes fixed on Ser Emmon.

"Lies," he called out. His sword took flight, the metal glinted from the flames.

Yngvi's axe was in his hand. As his sword connected with Emmon's, the flat of his axe struck the knight in the face. He then slipped his blade from his foe's, and bashed his pommel into the man's ribs, before striking upwards once more. Releasing the knight of his blade and his helm, Yngvi watched as the Knight's balance left him. His knees buckled, and his legs crumpled from under him. He collapsed to the floor.

Yngvi turned to face the other knight. "Do not fight me, boy. You will not win," Yngvi said, his tone much harsher than he thought.

The knight put away his blade, and so did Yngvi.

"What happened?" He asked.

Yngvi swallowed hard. His rough hands worked their way through his hair. "Renly was talking by the mirror. A shadow, a fucking shadow came in and stabbed him. It slit his throat before we could do anything. It was Stannis. I just know it was him," he said softly.

"What do we do?" The knight asked, as his comrade slowly regained his feet. It wasn't directed at anyone, yet Yngvi answered.

"Give me his helm. We ride against Stannis. Right now."

They all looked at him, their eyes filled with shock.

"We can't," Brienne said.

"We can. We will. Renly will die in the battle, so will Stannis. We owe it to him," Yngvi said, gesturing to the corpse. "Find Loras. Tell him about his loss."

And with that Yngvi put on the helm. The green and gold design, the antlers on the top weighed him down. He could not remember wearing a helm before, the weight was unaccustomed to his neck.

"Prepare for battle," he said as he marched out of the tent. Men were outside, glaring at him. He drew his sword.

"Ours is the fury," he roared.

The men smiled. And they roared. And they believed. They believed in this imposter, they would die for this imposter.

Soon, men were preparing for battle. Horns around the camp were blowing. Here, and there, the noise rebounding.

Yngvi mounted a horse, and other men followed his lead. Time seemed to speed up. It seemed to him just a moment ago he was in the tent, watching as Brienne limply gripped Renly's body. Now he was here. The light of dawn was rising up from the ground. Stannis's troops were feebly gathering around the keep, whilst Renly's host was ready to charge.

And Yngvi did just that. He spurred his horse down into the depths of Storms end. Green grass, freshly covered in dew, spread out in front of him. At the sight of this mass host, most of Stannis' troops broke away, distancing themselves from death.

When the wave of horse and flesh hit, it was like a knife through air. They had no heavy horse. Their lines were not set. Their defences were poor. It was a massacre.

He swept his blade in long arcs, left and right, blood spraying after his blade. Men offered their parlour, releasing their blades at his feet.

Soon only Stannis remained.

He was dressed in black. Steel sheets overlapped to protect his ribs, chest, and thighs, but under that he wore black leather. On his chest was the fiery heart of the lord of light.

A great flame was his blade, and it danced with the sun. Bodies lay sprawled out around his feet. Blood covered he ground, a red sea drowning the green. He was horseless, so Yngvi dismounted and approached.

A few of his men had rallied around his standard and charged at Yngvi. With nonchalant flicks of his wrist, they died. Soon, only Stannis remained.

"Do you expected me to yield?" He called.

"No. I expect you to die, like the kinslayer that you are," and with that their blades met.

They danced for a while, Stannis grunting and panting. He thrusted whilst Yngvi parried. Then, he over reached with a wild swing. Yngvi ducked under the blade, and thrusted.

Stannis slowly slid down Yngvi's blade, a crimson smear following his body. He gargled in his blood, choking on it. He coughed and coughed, the blood forced from his lungs, yet soon his eyes went distant and dull. His legs buckled, and he died in a pool of his own blood.

Yngvi let him fall. He hit the ground hard, his body limp and lifeless. Taking of Renly's helm, Yngvi marched away, hearing the roar of the host. He cut down Stannis' standard, tucking the cloth under his armour.

He looked around, searching for her. The red in the mass. Eventually he spotted her, and he followed.

She ran and ran, climbing down the cliff face in a wild panic. Yngvi followed. She ran along the beach, her footprints chasing after her, the sand following in the air. Her dress finally caught and she fell, Yngvi just a few yards away.

Her face was white, her hair had fallen from its braid.

"Don't, my lord, I am just a priestess," she cried.

"No. You are not. You are the demon. A demon monkey from the pits of hell. You are sin. You turned an honourable man to the depths of kinslaying. I name you murderer, and lay the corpses of two kings at your feet: Renly, and Stannis Baratheon," he called out. He raised his sword.

"If you strike me down, your family will bleed. Your son will die. The snake will turn black, gorging on blood. He will never return. Not to you, his woman, or his wolf. I swear to you. If I die here, you and your king will die at a wedding of betrayal and blood. You will see your blood fall and burn. You will see your life in ruins. And you will remember this day, and curse your name and blood in your ignorance. Then you will meet the other, of which he is your maker," she smiled viciously. "I see you. Boy. Blood does not run through your veins, only ash and death. You passed that onto your son. Everything he touches dies, and so too is your fate. Make your choice, my Lord of Magnar."

Yngvi did not falter, but struck her head from her shoulders. Her body went limp in the sand, the surf washing away her blood. Her head rolled for a moment, only to stop facing Yngvi.

Her body twitched. Her hand stretched out to grab Yngvi, but only grasped air. Then she was still.

He looked at her head. The fire had died in her eyes, but her mouth was smiling. Definitely smiling.

He walked back to the keep, unaware of his curse that followed him.

AN: Sorry this one was short. Hope you like it. Review. Review now! Alright, history homework, then bed.


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